


Signs of Life

by LiviKate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit Not Good, Angst, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Caught in the Act, Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, General Overall Cuteness, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous John, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, SO, Sexual Content, Sexytimes, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, a little Dimolly, be forewarned, cuteness, mystrade, the yarders - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-01-20 07:50:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1502531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiviKate/pseuds/LiviKate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Yarders have a pretty well developed view of Sherlock Holmes. Cold, cruel, dispassionate and robotic. He simply doesn't register as human. As Sherlock and John fall farther and farther in love with one another, however, the proud men and women from NSY find themselves facing irrefutable evidence as to the true existence of a heart in Sherlock Holmes. These are a couple random drabbles in which the Yarders see some pretty damning signs of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Comforting

“Sherlock, got a minute?”

 Sherlock’s head whipped up at the unanticipated presence insinuating itself into his thought process.

 “If this is still the same case from yesterday, it’s only a 4 and I’m not interested,” he replied shortly, looking back to the microscope. If he wasn’t careful, the compound he was studying could very well dissolve the slide. Mycroft would have to buy Bart’s _another_ replacement scope.

 Maybe he could afford some inattention.

 “I really think you should look at this one,” Lestrade said, not budging from the doorway. “I texted you.”

 “John didn’t say anything,” Sherlock answered distractedly, writing notes on his pad without taking his focus from the eyepiece. There was a moment of confused silence as the Detective Inspector looked around.

 “John isn’t here, Sherlock.”

 “Oh.” Sherlock frowned. He stood from his stool and crossed to the chair he’d left the Belstaff draped over. Pulling his phone from the pocket he saw a missed text from Lestrade and two from John.

               

               14:56

_I don’t think you actually heard me talking,_

_but I know you’ll check your phone eventually._

_I’m heading out, need to take care of something._

_Text me if you want to go for dinner. –JW_

 

16:21

_Never mind about dinner. Coming home soon? –JW_

“Did you go by the flat?” His frown deepened. He checked his watch. It was 17:02.

“No, came straight here.”

“John told you I’d be here?”

“Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s frown reached epic proportions. _‘No John and a meddling fatty.’_

Then none other than Sally Donovan had to appear behind Lestrade in the doorway. _‘Lovely,’_ Sherlock thought. _‘No John, meddling fatty and the bane of my existence.’_

“Afternoon, Freak,” she said coolly, pressing a steaming cup into her boss’s hand. “He coming?” she asked the inspector.

"Hope so,” he replied, still looking at the genius. “We need him.”

“Of course you do, you always do,” Sherlock said flippantly as he opened John’s messages again and composed one of his own.

                _We need milk- SH_

A full minute of staring at the phone and no reply. Something was off.

“Crime scene’s right past Baker Street. We can pick John up on the way,” Lestrade offered. Sherlock was silent. “Didn’t bring a Met car, brought my own to get you.”

Sherlock nodded once. At the very least it was a free ride. He needed to get home.

 

                Reaching the flat, Sherlock was thrilled to find Lestrade and Donovan unbuckling their seat belts and following him up the stairs to 221B. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and bounded up the stairs two at a time.

                “John,” He called. “Get your coat, Lestrade’s an idiot.”

The offended “Oi!” that sounded behind him was completely ignored as Sherlock pushed the door open and his eyes landed on John.

He sat on the couch, head in his hands, shoulders shaking quietly. The coffee table had been flipped over and lay on its front, three feet from where it ought to be. A lamp was broken on the floor and the shattered remains of the smartphone Sherlock had bought John lay in a jagged heap against the wall.

John’s shoulders shook again.

Sherlock’s world dropped out from underneath him.

Forgetting the officers now shifting awkwardly at his back, Sherlock rushed quickly to his partner, long legs depositing him between John’s knees in seconds. He sunk to the floor gracefully and reached a long fingered hand up to gently touch the soldier’s face.

“John?” he asked quietly. His skin was cool and clammy under his fingertips. A single tear rolled down his cheek and another silent shudder shook his frame. Watery blue eyes slowly rose to meet Sherlock’s and the poor genius had never felt more lost.

Sherlock knew in that moment that he would do anything in the world to keep John from ever looking so sad again. His stomach felt cold and empty and his skin felt hot and he desperately needed to know what he could do to bring that smile back to John’s face. Sherlock woke up to that smile, it followed him through the day, all he had to do was look over and it’d be there. Easy offered, packed with meaning, the perfect example of the sentiment Sherlock had since learned to bow to. That smile was gone, miles and miles away. Sherlock ached to have that smile back. He’d do anything.

“John, please, tell me what's wrong,” Sherlock pleaded, one hand gently cupping the man’s face, the other gripping tightly around his wrist. “Was it something I did? Whatever it is, I'm sorry, God, so sorry, I’ll never do it again, I promise. Please, just don’t look like that.” Another slow tear fell from John’s eye. Sherlock hastily wiped it away, hating it for being there “Please stop, John, please don’t do that,”

Sherlock felt panicked desperation clawing up his throat as slow tears crawled down his lover’s face and silent shudders proved stronger than sturdy shoulders. “Whatever it is, I'm sorry. Tell me what I did, I swear I’ll never do it again,” Sherlock voice cracked and he finished in a whisper. “Please stop crying.”

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” came a rough voice, thick with tears. John’s shaking hand came up to cover Sherlock’s on his cheek, leaning into the contact.

“It’s not, John, it can’t be, you’re crying,” Sherlock insisted. “Just tell me what to do. I’ll fix it, I promise, just tell me what I have to do.” Sherlock realized his chest was heaving worse than John’s and his heart was pounding in his ears, so much so that he didn't hear Lestrade awkwardly clear his throat in the hall. “Please, John, I swear to you, I will do anything to make this better.” Panic choked him up. “Please let me fix this.” Sherlock felt close to tears himself.

“Hey, ‘Lock, shh, it’s not your fault,” John said comfortingly, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and scared, and it warmed John’s heart a bit, knowing how much his madman cared for him.

“I can fix it, I'm sure I can, just tell me what I need to do.” Wild curls bobbed as Sherlock shuffled closer to John on his knees, both hands gripping tightly around his wrists.

“It’s not something you can fix, love,” John said, running his fingers through his partner’s hair as another shiver ran through his body.

“What’s wrong, John?” Sherlock asked, wiping another tear from the doctor’s cheek.

“It’s Harry. She was in an accident.” John’s voice caught and cracked. “Sherlock, she’d been doing so well, she was really turning around, and now—”A sob stole the remainder of John’s sentence, but Sherlock didn't need to hear it, and he’d never press John to say it.

There was nothing Sherlock could think to say, nothing that would fix this. To he merely sat up on his knees and pulled John’s forehead down to meet his. He ran one hand soothingly over the doctor’s shaking side and let the man cry against him. He closed his eyes and held his John.

Sherlock didn't know when Lestrade and Donovan left, but at some point they did. They had stood in the doorway, gob-smacked to see the stoic soldier sobbing silently, and shocked even further to see the cold robot of a man brought to hysterics trying to fix it. The picture they made, Sherlock’s body bowing towards John, knuckles white where they wrapped around his wrists, John’s shoulders slumped and his head falling against that of his love. It made Greg’s jaw ache and Donovan felt properly fooled for ever thinking that man heartless.


	2. Sleepy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is much more cute and sweet than the last one, don't worry!

“C’mon, Holmes, open up,” came a shout as the incessant banging on the front door continued. John cracked one eye open, having given up on pretending Lestrade wasn’t at the door. He’d been at it for nearly 3 minutes straight. John sighed.

With one arm trapped under his bedmate’s head, John levered himself up onto an elbow, the pale forearm splayed across his chest falling limping to his hips. Turning his head, John took a second of blessed silence to admire the beauty sleeping next to him. Pink lips were open as a quiet but rough snore drifted up from a long, elegant throat. The pale skin was marred only by a brilliantly dark love bite, left lovingly just where his jaw met his neck.

The knocking began again. Complete with kicking.

“Goddamn it, Sherlock, open the fucking door.”

John sighed again, carefully extricating himself from the grips of his dead-to-the-world lover. Putting tired feet to the ground, John pushed himself up, relishing in the audible popping in his back as he stretched. To lazy to grab slippers or a dressing gown, John slowly plodded his way down the hall, one hand rucking up his loose v-neck to scratch at his stomach.

“Sherlock Holmes, you better bloody well be awake,” Greg shouted, pounding on the door. Too little sleep and too many alley chases had John’s head pounding as well. John pulled the door open, hiding a yawn unsuccessfully behind his hand.

“He’s asleep,” John mumbled, turning around with only the vaguest gesture for the officer to follow him. He headed straight for the kettle. He put the water on and then paused when he got to the selection of teas. “Time?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Seven,” Greg answered, sitting down heavily in one of the kitchen chairs.

John sighed again. This was a morning for sighing. He grabbed the decaf tea. He sure as hell was going back to bed after this.

They’d gotten in at only four in the morning, having solved an 8, caught a murderer and saved the latest abductee. Then they’d shagged their brains out and passed out, tangled together in sheets and loose pajamas, drug on sleepily only at the insistence of the cold.

He’d only gotten about two hours of sleep.

This was so not okay.

“Seven in the morning?” He asked, head hanging low as he braced his hands on the countertop. “Why the fuck are you here?”

“You,” Greg said accusingly. “Still have my case file.”

“You don’t have a copy?” John asked tiredly, leaning his hip against the counter and scrubbing his hands over his face.

“No, we only had the one copy. _Had_. Before your little twat stole it from us.” Greg pointed a finger at the bedroom door down the hall. “I can’t close an investigation without all the god awful paperwork that goes along with it.”

“Fine, fine, just quiet down, for Pete’s sake,” John grumbled, pulling two cups from the cabinet as the kettle boiled.

“Oh, I’m sorry, got a bit of a headache, hm?” Greg asked with mock concern. “That’s what happens when you run off on your own and cut me out of my own case. You get tired, and you get a headache.”

“Oi, shut it you,” John said good naturedly, handing his friend his mug as he walked passed him into the disaster that was his living room. He stood for a moment in the center of the mess, surveying the nonsense piles of what Sherlock called ‘order.’

John Watson sighed again.

Taking a sip of his tea, he settled on the couch to begin combing through the travesty of papers littering the coffee table. Surely the file was in here somewhere.

“You don’t just want to go ask him?” Greg asked, standing by the door and nudging a precarious pile of books and binders with his foot.

“I told you,” John answered gruffly. “He’s asleep.”

“So wake him up,” Greg suggested, bewildered. John just shook his head and continued to dig about for the folder.

Just then, because the morning wasn’t bad enough, Sally Donovan came stomping up the stairs.

“What the bloody hell is taking so fucking long?” She demanded, hands on hips as she stood in the doorway.

“Good morning to you too,” John said, his tone and expression surly.

“Where is His Majesty?” She asked, poking her head through the door to the kitchen before returning back to the living room.

“Sleeping,” John and Greg said together.

“Well get him up,” She grouched.

“No, it’s fine, I think I’ve got it,” John said, sleepiness stealing any triumph he might’ve felt at conquering Mount Sherlock’s Shit. “See if this is right.” Handing it over to Greg, John downed the rest of his cup and began shepherding the officers towards the door.

“Yeah, this looks about right,” Greg said, smiling tiredly up at John. His smile turned to a frown however as he got a good look at his friend.

“I thought you said the perp didn’t give you any trouble?” he asked, gesturing to the angry red scratch marks descending down from the sleeve of his threadbare t-shirt.

“That was Sherlock,” John deadpanned, sleep deprivation making him a little too honest. Greg flushed and Sally’s eyes dilated, even as she made a show of gagging in disgust.

“Well,” Lestrade said, clearing his throat awkwardly. John merely shrugged, fighting another yawn as he made to open the door.

He didn't get the chance, though, because just as he was about to not-so-graciously boot his guests out the door, and loud and whinny _“Jaaaawwwwwn”_ sounded from the bedroom.

John sighed again.

“Now you’ve done it.”

“ _Jawn_ ” sounded again, this time accompanied by the swish of the door opening and the pad of bare feet in the corridor.

Sherlock emerged, his hair a bushy mess, his pajama pants slung low and twisted, his chest bare and hand-shaped bruises marking up what was visible of his hips. And half asleep.

In other words, not at all fit for company. Especially if that company was a man who counted him as a brother and a woman who counted him as a danger to society.

“Sherlock, go back to bed,” John said, his voice lacking most of its command as he admired the visible reminders of last night left on his lover's skin.

“Wha time is’t?” came the rumbly and slurred response, footsteps slow as he trudged down the hall.

“You’ve only been asleep for two, maybe three hours. Go back to bed.”

“You got up,” Sherlock said, half accusing half whining as he came to a swaying halt behind John. Sliding one arm down over his shoulder and pressing his face into the side of his doctor’s neck, Sherlock leaned nearly his whole weight forward, draping himself over John. He was warm from being wrapped up in bed, and his bare chest burned through John's thin sleep shirt, warming his back. John squeezed and petted the forearm hanging crossways in front of his chest, stroking the soft skin with his fingertips.

“Lestrade and Donovan are here,” John began, his voice pitched lower than before out of respect for the sleepy head lolling on his shoulder.

“I know,” Sherlock sighed, nuzzling closer. “Annoying. Woke you up. You left me, I had to wake up. Couldn't sleep without you.”

Donovan’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline as she watched Sherlock bloody Holmes snuggle and doze against his partner, whispering sweetness into his ear. It was just plain weird to see. But then again, she’d never seen the man sleepy before. She had kind of started to figure the freak never did.

“They were looking for the case file you borrowed," John continued, lazily bringing one musician's hand up to his mouth to kiss gently.

“Stole,” Lestrade interrupted pointedly.

“Hmm,” Sherlock said, tightening his hold on John, his other arm coming to curl around his hips, the thumb insinuating itself in the band of his bottoms. “Statements?”

“Well, if you’re up for it,” Greg began before John cut him off with a glare.

“Nope, absolutely not. Sherlock, you are going back to bed, where you will stay for at least five and a half more hours.”

Sherlock whined wordlessly, his black, messy curls shifting as he shook his head petulantly against John’s neck.

“We had a deal,” John said sternly, even as his fingers continued to delicately trace the blue veins in his partner’s wrist. “If you’re going to go hours without sleeping for a case, after you’ve solved it and impressed and offended everyone, you will sleep for at least a sixth of the time you were awake for. This last one was a little under two days, so you owe me at least eight hours of sleep.”

Sherlock groaned again.

John didn't budge, merely rolling his eyes at Greg.

“Fine,” Sherlock mumbled in what was likely an imperious tone, were it not for a sleep-deprivation-induced cuddles that had him murmuring his response against the hot skin of John’s throat. “But you have to come with me.”

John smiled happily down at his bare feet.

“Yes, love, of course,” John assured, turning his head to press a kiss into unruly curls. “Go on, then,” he prompted. “I’ll see Greg out.”

Sherlock slowly disentangled himself from John, his hand dragging up John’s firm stomach, rucking the hem up with it and exposing tanned skin, dark brown hair and some black ink not many people knew about.

Greg and Sally’s eyes were wide enough after seeing the most flagrant display of affection the detective had ever deigned to produce, and he was dead on his feet when he did it. No shams, no games, just comfortable, unfiltered Sherlock.

To say they were surprised would be an understatement.

They were particularly aghast when they heard the soft _whumph_ of pooling cotton and suddenly became unexpectedly witness to Sherlock sauntering down the hall to their bedroom, bare arsed naked, his pajama bottoms left where he’d dropped them. Red love bits and hand shaped bruised adorned his skin, and his arsecheeks were still tinged pink from John slamming into them.

All three people watching the retreat had their mouth hanging open. Two were watering, one was already planning on telling his brother on him.

“I think they can show themselves out, John,” was all he said before the bedroom door swung shut.

John took a second to catch his breath. He swallowed. Once. Twice.

“Get the fuck out.”

 


	3. Frantic

“New Scotland Yard! Get on the fucking ground!” The door kicked in and Detective Inspector Lestrade stood on the other side, baton raised and a look of pure fury on his face. As the room flooded with uniformed officers, the man holding a bedraggled Sherlock Holmes up by the neck slowly released his grip and did as was bid.

 

Sherlock collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath, his face red and his brow bleeding. Lestrade rushed over, kneeling before him as he caught his breath.

 

But his breath wouldn’t come. His heart was still racing and his head still swimming because something was fundamentally wrong. And until it was put back to rights, there would not be enough air in the world.

 

“You’re one stupid fucking twat of a genius, Sherlock,” Lestrade growled, manhandling the detective into a sitting position. “I told you not to go in! What in bloody hell were you thinking?”

 

“John,” Sherlock gasped, scrabbling on hands and knees towards the door. Lestrade blocked his path, shifting sideways with his hands out stretched. “John, I need to get John.” His voice was cracked and broken, and later when he came in for a statement he would blame that on tracheal distress instead of the bone crushing fear he was currently feeling.

 

"Where is John?” Lestrade asked, trading anger or worry as he moved again to block Sherlock’s frantic moves to escape. The man was in a bad way, and Greg didn’t want him running off into more danger before he had been properly seen to.

 

“They took him,” Sherlock said in a rush, eyes wide and flickering all over the scene; dark, dank rooms, dusty from years of disuse, floors and wall speckled with dirt, mould and blood. No John. “They wanted information, they took him. They beat him in front of me and then took him away. There were gunshots. I need to find him.” Sherlock lurched to his feet, coughing and wheezing, hands scraping across the grimy floor. He made to push passed the inspector, moving in a beeline towards the door.

 

“Wait a second,” Lestrade cautioned, catching the panicked man by a sharp and fast-flying elbow. “You’re in no condition to go chasing after John, you wait here and get looked at and I will go find John.”

 

“No, let me go,” Sherlock cried, clawing at the officer’s hold on him. He surged for the door again. “I need to see him. He’s close, they couldn’t have taken him far. I just need to find him. Please, just let me go. Let me find him.” Lestrade watched wide eyed as the cool and collected detective begged and pleaded, a single tear streaking down through the dirt and blood caked over his face.

 

“A little help here,” Greg called, concern creasing his forehead and two constables made to grab at Sherlock’s widely flailing limbs.

 

"No! No, let me go.” Sherlock bucked in their grip, elbowing one in the face and making a desperate heave towards the door. “John!” His panicked voice echoed through the abandoned office space.

 

“Sherlock, stop,” Lestrade barked, trying to keep the detective still. Seeing his unfocused and tearing eyes, Greg suspected head trauma was extremely likely, and as such had to work that much harder to keep the madman from injuring himself further. “Sherlock, you need to calm down. We will find John for you and bring him here, just calm down for me.”

 

Two officers shouldered their way by, between them the cuffed and scowling loan shark and mob boss, over which Sherlock had heaped mountains of damning evidence. The conviction was assured, taking down him and over half of his current organization. He didn’t seem out of plays yet, however, and while his fingers curled uselessly behind his back, it was clear he was wishing they were back around Sherlock’s throat.

 

“Don’t get your hopes up, cunt,” he spat over his shoulder at Sherlock. “Your poofter’s as good as dead!”

 

Sherlock jerked in the constables’ grip, a shriek ripping from his throat as he threw himself bodily after the criminal. His shouts lost any actual clarity and it was just wordless screams echoing throughout the gang headquarters.

 

The inspector stepped in front of him and grabbed his head between his hands, shaking him when he continued to flail and shout unintelligible nonsense, his face contorted into the most terrifying desperation. Greg willed himself not to panic. He’d never seen Sherlock like this, not once. Not even when he’d been high out of his head and sure that the toaster had a ghost in it. Greg took a deep breath and, as he often had to with Sherlock, reminded himself that he was the adult here and he could handle the situation. He just had to take charge.

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Greg ordered, shocking Sherlock into making eye contact. “Settle your arse down right now or I will cart you out and make you wait in a nuthouse to hear about John.” The threat was completely empty, and a level-headed Sherlock would’ve known it. But this Sherlock was terrified, angry and desperate. Greg would’ve smiled if his friend hadn’t looked so terribly miserable and frantic.

 

“Lestrade, I need to find him,” he begged, looking up with big, wet eyes. “They took him and I heard a gun. The man came back covered in blood. They took him from me, they took him.” Sherlock collapsed in the constables’ grip with shuddering sobs, the type he didn’t truly have the breath for. He was in a full blow, breathless panic attack, eyes rolling widely as he struggled to draw enough air into his lungs that felt three sizes too small.

 

“It’s okay, Sherlock, we’ll find him,” Greg said, pressing one hand awkwardly into bloody, matted curls. He’d seen John have a panic attack once when Sherlock was gone. He’d never driven that route with John again. Seeing that rooftop just brought back too many memories. John had later told him he’d handled it well, giving him space to breath while he tried to eliminate the problematic stimuli. He’d said that was all one could really do for that sort of thing. The majority of the battle was fought inside your own head.

 

Broken sobs and empty breaths echoed in the dirty room as the officers held up a twitching and lurching detective. Lestrade nodded to a Sergeant and he radioed out to see if a lost John Watson had been found. He prayed there would be something, not only so he could see his friend safe, but so that he never had to hear Sherlock Holmes sound so heartbroken ever again.

 

When the garbled but audible “We’ve got something,” was voiced over the radio, Sherlock head jerked up. In seconds he shook his keepers and bolted headlong, and very ungracefully, towards the door. He launched himself out into the hallway, Lestrade quick on his tail, chest aching from lack of breath.

 

“Sherlock?” The call sounded as equally desperate as the man it beckoned. The detective sobbed a breath of relief; relief so thorough and overwhelming he dropped down to one weak knee before pushing off the floor and propelling himself down the hall once more.

 

“John!” Sherlock gasped, running at a full sprint as John Watson rounded the corner, helped along by a shocked Sergeant Donovan.

 

The gangly detective threw himself at the soldier with such force it knocked the man back a step. Seemingly unaware of their stunned audience, the two men slumped to the floor, Sherlock’s long fingers knotted with white knuckles in John’s tattered and red stained coat.

 

“Shh, shh, it’s alright, Sherlock,” the doctor murmured against the detective’s hair. One busted and bloodied hand stroked along the long, curved line of his partners back, the other wrapped reassuringly around the nape of his neck.  Sherlock buried his cut and salty face into the curve of John’s neck, smelling like sweat and adrenalin and desperate relief. He breathed it in, finally able to fill his lungs for the first time since he’d heard that gunshot through the walls. His shoulders shuddered and he held the bruised man in a crushing grip.

 

The police force watched, mouths agape and eyes bewildered, as the robotic detective cried freely in the arms of the soldier he thought he’d lost.

 

“It’s fine, Sherlock, it’s all fine,” John said in a hushed and gravelly voice. Half his face was swelling and it was clear that Sherlock’s weight was pressing uncomfortably against bruised ribs, but he held onto Sherlock like a life raft, pressing endearments and kisses into blood soaked hair.

 

As Sherlock’s breath returned to something closer to safe, John carefully cupped his face in his hands and drew back far enough to properly look at his partner.

 

“Hey now, none of that,” he chided lovingly, brushing away a couple tears with a thumb of one hand.

 

“I thought you were dead,” Sherlock said, his voice sounding harsh and accusing even through his tear-tightened throat.

 

“It’s not fun, is it?” John joked quietly, holding the detective closer as he shook his head miserably and buried his face back into John’s shoulder.

 

“Never do that to me again,” Sherlock ordered as he pressed his face harder against the strong, hot, living body that was his John.

 

“I’ll try my best,” John said, a tired smile on his face as he pressed a chaste kiss to the exposed curve of the genius’ neck.

 

Greg cleared his throat and the dumbstruck officers seemed to all get the simultaneous “show’s over” message. The hall was filled with quiet mumbling as the officer’s went back to securing the building and doing a preliminary sweep for evidence.

 

“How about we get you two looked at, hm?” Greg said. He was frustratingly unable to work up the righteous anger he had busted in with, feeling as though Sherlock had more than learned his lesson about infiltrating a mob boss’ headquarters without being sufficiently prepared.

 

John nodded and flashed a grateful smile and Lestrade knelt to help pull the physically and emotionally exhausted detective up to his feet. John winced and cursed something fierce as he stood up, wrapping his arm around his ribs as the group limped towards the doors.

 

Sally Donovan stood in shocked silence as the three men made their slow way toward the ambulance waiting outside. She couldn’t quite reconcile her mental schema of the cold detective with the one she just saw sobbing on the floor in the arms of the man he loved and thought he’d lost. It just seemed _wrong._ As a rule, the freak didn’t feel those sorts of things. Isn’t that what made a sociopath a sociopath?

 

Even so, she could hardly deny the heart-stopping panic in his voice, the earth-shattering relief she had seen on his face or the very real tears coursing sticky tracks over pale cheeks. And the way John had hurried her along the whole way back, absolutely certain Sherlock would be working himself into a snit without him. She had rolled her eyes, not wanting to sound like a broken record by saying, again, that Sherlock Holmes cared for no one but himself.

 

Today seemed to be evidence to the contrary. The Sergeant scowled.


	4. Caring

It was February. It was cold. It was wet. And it was three in the morning.

John Watson was not a happy man.

He had just finished an over-time night shift in the A&E, spent in emergency surgery when a four car pileup yielded seven victims in critical condition at two in the afternoon. It had eaten away John’s lunch break and worked well past a reasonable time for dinner. Having spent last night listening to the screeching wails of an angry violinist until the wee hours of the morning, Dr. Watson was not coping overly well. Due to his lack of sleep and mild starvation, John had to pass off the last three surgeries to another doctor; his hands were shaking too much to wield a scalpel. Exhaustion, he told himself firmly, oddly comforted that it was both hands quivering, not just the left. A hot meal and a good night’s sleep would not go amiss. John was eager to get home.

Just as he’d walked in the door, however, he was abruptly spun back around and pushed out into the slushy street.

“Come, John,” Sherlock called hurriedly, locking the door quickly and tossing a hand in the air for a cab. “There’s been a murder!”

“Of course there has,” John mumbled to himself, stuffing cold, gloveless hands in his pockets, wishing that he’d thought to take his warmer coat with him when he’d left the flat this morning, as it didn’t seem likely he’d be stepping foot in 221B again anytime soon. “Sherlock, it’s already gone ten,” he began in protest, but the cab pulled up and he was unceremoniously shoved through the door.

John sighed, but gave up on objecting. Sherlock had been wretched these last couple days, seeming as though the lack of interesting crimes were quite literally killing the man. Lazing on the couch, bemoaning the decency of the world and torturing his poor, long suffering violin. And flatmate.

If this case could get Sherlock out of his current funk, John supposed he could manage a couple more hours on his feet.

A ‘couple’ hours had quickly turned to five hours, and John had gone from hopeful to miserable.

The murderer, clever man that he was, and much to Sherlock’s delight, had not only murdered a perfectly average teenage boy, but also dismembered him and left his body scattered over a six block radius, with pieces hidden in skips, dropped down alleyways or tossed up onto fire escapes. Entranced with the adventure of it all, Sherlock was all coat and wind, whipping around corners as a long line of police and forensics rushed to keep up with him.

It was only when every one of the fifteen body sections were found, as well as the original scene of the murder, that John’s tired legs got a break.

Leaning against the wall of the garage, unattached from the abandoned house it belonged with and the epicenter of the scattered body bits, the doctor pulled his coat tighter around him, fighting off the cold. As fast as they had been moving, it had taken a long while to be sure every bit of gore and gunk was catalogued and accounted for. Long enough for the night time chill to set in at full effect. And now, stationary at the crime scene, while Sherlock did his thing, John didn’t even have the exercise or adrenalin to keep him warm.

John’s head rolled back to rest against the cinderblock wall. His shivering had taken an aggressive, bone-rattling turn for the worst. As a doctor, John knew he was in no real danger, that shivering meant his body still had the energy to move to generate warmth. It was hard to feel good about that, though, as the constant chattering of his teeth was growing rather annoying and he could feel his mind slowing down from low blood sugar. Had hadn’t eaten or drank anything since eleven this morning.

It had been a long day.

“John, come look at this,” Sherlock requested (read: demanded). He was crouched on the freezing cold concrete floor, tracking what was spilt oil and what was spurted blood.

The soldier tried to keep his shivering to a minimum as he pushed inelegantly, and with a lot of will power, off of his comfortable wall and walked slowly over to the detective. His single grunt was correctly interpreted as “What am I to be looking at, my dearest love,” and Sherlock directed his attention to what appeared to be arterial blood spray on the floor.

“With what force would you say a weapon would have to be swung to produce this arc pattern?” Sherlock asked, carefully studying the form.

“Why’re you asking me?” John asked tiredly, a hand rubbing across his face as he sunk down into a crouch next to his partner.

“I assume you’ve seen a bit of this. In the army, with improvised weapons. I’ve a theory, but I’d like it proven.” John huffed a laugh, of course he’d want to be proven right. ‘ _I’m a showoff, that’s what we do,’_ he remember Sherlock saying. And, well, he wasn’t wrong. John supposed it did take a slightly familiar shape, however with his brain slow from low blood sugar and the ill effect of cold weather and too thin a coat, John just shook his head.

“Dunno,” he said dully, pushing off his knees to stand up straight. As he stood, his vision blacked and his head swam, and he swayed to the side, putting a stabilizing hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He felt dizzy and slightly nauseous, his stomach cramping at the thought of heaving nothing but bile. His vision was clearing, however, and he was able to see, if not focus on particularly well, the look of concern Sherlock was giving him from his spot on the floor.

“John?” he asked, rising fluidly to take his friend’s elbow as he swayed on his feet again.

“Long day is all,” he assured, trying at a smile. Sherlock’s frown turned to a furrow as he took the time to truly observe his partner.

Sherlock looked him over for the first time since the doctor had dropped a kiss onto his forehead as he’d left for work.

‘ _Pale, shaking, vision unfocused, smile false. Hasn’t eaten since tea time, even then only a couple biscuits. Didn’t sleep last night. Three, not four surgeries, close calls on two of them. Likely the car wreck on twenty-fifth. One patient might not fully recover. Coat much too thin, not gloves or scarf. Cold, hungry, miserable.’_

“You should eat,” Sherlock summarized, standing to face John. “And that coat is not nearly adequate for the weather.”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Irritable too,” Sherlock said. “Definitely low-blood sugar.”

“I am a doctor, you know.”

“Then you should know how to take better care of yourself.”

Sherlock pulled the scarf from his neck and looped it around John’s, using the soft blue fabric to pull him in close.

“Sherlock, I’m fine,” John protested feebly. The soldier in him was too stubborn to allow himself to bury his face in his boyfriend’s shoulder without at least a little objection. He was merely hushed and a warm, long fingered hand wrapped securely around the base of his neck, curling beneath the scarf and stroking into the soft blonde strands. When his other hand wrapped around his back as well, pulling him into the cover and heat of Sherlock’s coat and body, John surrendered completely. He leaned heavily against his partner, closing his eyes and sliding his cold fingers into the pockets of the brunet’s trousers. He let out a deep, shuddering breath, his head still swimming alarmingly.

“Headache?” Sherlock asked, reading his mind, his deep baritone soothing and smooth.

“Splitting,” John murmured, pressing his face into the dark and warm of his friend.

“He alright?” he heard Greg ask. Normally, John would’ve hated looking weak in front of the Yarders, but right now he couldn’t be arsed to care

“Fine,” Sherlock answered, his voice subdued for John’s benefit. “But we need to be heading home.”

“But this is exactly the kind of twisted case you’d like,” Anderson interjected from across the garage, where he was hunched picking through bloodied rags. “A dead kid, lots of blood and gore and pieces.”

“There is no mystery here, everything is painfully obvious, were you not to daft to see it,” Sherlock began, his reply cutting but his voice soft and gentle and completely at odds with the detective’s personality. “Merely an adventurous sadist who hated his stepbrother.” The usual sneer was absent, his tone muted and warm instead. Anderson looked up at the sound of Sherlock speaking kindly, even if it was about murder, his head snapping around and locking on with disbelief on the detective.

He stood in the middle of the bloodstained floor, coat open and hanging around the compact frame of his lover, his pale hand playing with the tips of John’s hair. Sherlock pressed his cheek to the top of his friend’s head and continued murmuring down to him, the hand on his back stroking up and down for friction and comfort. Anderson watched Sherlock dip his head down and gently kiss John’s cold cheek.

“If that’s all you need,” Sherlock said looking back to Lestrade, his tone businesslike, but still quiet and clearly angling to leave.

“Stepbrother? That’s all you got?” Lestrade asked, looking slightly envious that John had a warm body to burrow into.

“What more do you need? It’s clear he attended the local secondary school, he played lacrosse, his stepfather clearly favored him over his real son and his girlfriend is a cheerleader. If you can’t find him by tomorrow, I will do it for you.” Sherlock hugged John closer when another shiver rattled his broad frame.

“Usually if you think you can do it faster, you’ll do it yourself anyway,” Greg said with a pointed finger.

“I’m taking John home,” Sherlock said with the kind of finality that left no room for questions.

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John said, pulling away reluctantly, his hands sliding out of his pockets and around the curve of his hips. “Finish your case, I can just get a cab.”

Sherlock looked at John as if he’d just been slapped.

“Of course you won’t _just get a cab_ ,” he said with affronted bewilderment. “You’re barely staying on your feet. No, I am taking you home.” Sherlock pulled John back in against him, the hand on his neck nestling his head against his collarbone. “With your luck, you’d wander aimlessly around London until you got yourself killed.”

Anderson’s jaw dropped as Sherlock wrapped his arms tighter around the doctor, nuzzling his face into his hair.

“You’d solve my murder though, wouldn’t you?” John asked with a hidden smile and a violent shiver.

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Sherlock retorted quickly, his mobile in one hand ready to call for a cab.

“You wouldn’t?” John asked, leaning back to look quizzically at the detective, even though it made his head spin.

“I couldn’t. I’d be a mess. I’d probably never solve another case.”

If Anderson’s mouth gaped any farther, it would dislocate. Greg looked like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to feel like a proud father or a peeping tom.  And Sherlock looked as if the most important thing in the world was getting John fed and warm. John looked as if he would agree.

Anderson could swear he’d never seen that depth of feeling in the detective. Excitement, sure, manic energy, yes, a creepy level of fascination with dead bodies, absolutely. But affection? Tenderness? Caring? Anderson would’ve sworn the man incapable of it. Of any of it.

And yet, faced with a cold doctor with dangerously low blood sugar and nearly dead on his feet, Sherlock was practically wrapping himself around the man, running fingers through his hair and whispering sweet nothings into his ears, telling him he’d be nothing without him. Anderson couldn’t decide if it made his feel sick or scared.

Watching Sherlock hang up with the cab company and gently tip his lover’s head up to press a soft, chaste kiss to bluish lips, Anderson found he wasn’t sick or scared. He was jealous. Jealous of a love he never thought he’d see in the man who he never thought would love at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has ideas or suggestions for future chapters, I'd love to hear them!


	5. Devoted pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Due to the amazing response I got to the author's note that previous made up Chapter 5, I've decided to replace that note with Part 1 of the next chapter, which, called for my popular demand by all the lovely readers who commented, is filled with fluffy smut :) Hope I didn't disappoint!

DI Chandler McGovern. He was new to the Yard. A detective inspector, just transferred in to White Collar Crimes Division. He was young for his accomplishments, no more than thirty three and had the kind of classically handsome that made women stop and stare, and 50’s film directors tossing in their graves at such a gorgeous man wasted on the streets of London. He was charming and quick witted and never turned down a challenge.

It was likely the last attribution that made John Watson notice all the others.

Namely because it seemed as though the latest challenge he had undertaken was that of catching the eye of one Sherlock Holmes.

While John wasn’t sure yet if Sherlock had noticed the attention yet, John certainly had. It started with appreciative stares from across a dead body. Harmless at first, after all it was rather difficult for any red-blooded male with even a hint of support for the home team not to appreciate the view of Sherlock on his knees in tight trousers. But before long the arse-oogling turned to full-body studying. McGovern would watch Sherlock’s hands as he carefully examined a weapon. He stared at his face when the blue and red flashers played across his cheekbones, deductions rapidly flying out of his mouth. His eyes always followed the consultant wherever he went.

John wouldn’t have minded all that much if that was all. Sherlock was a beautiful man, he was gawked at everywhere he went, so long as he kept his mouth shut. John Watson could handle other men leering at his lover.

What gave John pause, however, was that McGovern seemed to like Sherlock. And Sherlock, seemed to tolerate him.

“Morning, Holmes,” the DI greeted with a blinding grin as he held the crime tape up for Sherlock. His eyes followed the brunet’s head as it ducked down, licking his lips before dropping the tape back down right in front of John. John took a breath and indulged in a heated glare at the officers back as he escorted Sherlock with a hand on the small of his back five feet to the body obviously sprawled out on the ground in broad daylight. John expected Sherlock to tell the man off for guiding him like a child to a corpse on could identify from across the street. He didn’t.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked instead, kneeling down to examine the dead man.

“What, I can’t just want to see you?” McGovern joked bumping his hip into Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock looked up at him with a blank, unamused expression. The cop merely grinned, and John could see all the nasty things he was thinking of doing to Sherlock, kneeling there, mouth at cock-height, staring up at him from the floor. John gritted his teeth and said nothing.

“This victim was a suspect of yours?” Sherlock said more than asked, studying the man’s hands and carefully pulling receipts from his pockets.

“More a person of interest,” he said, rocking on his heels. “I have over £500,000 missing in an extortion case I’ve been trying to account for. This guy was my best guess.”

“Why am I here?” Sherlock asked, frowning at the simplicity of a hired hit. _‘Knife still lodged in his back, expertly done, no prints, no DNA left behind, secluded alley but body would definitely be found.’_ “There’s nothing interesting about this at all.”

“Without this guy breathing, my investigation is dead in the water, and it’s a bit of a pet project for me. Think you might be willing to give me a hand? Look it over for me?” McGovern gave a panty-dropping smile that was clearly intended to be charming and convincing. John could hear the female officers and forensic staff tittering about how dreamy the new DI was. Something told John, however, that McGovern wasn’t exactly playing for their team.

“Chandler, you know better than to waste my time,” Sherlock said shortly. His reply lacked any warmth or forgiveness, but John still frowned at it. First name basis, not offending remark or derogatory comment. John frowned harder.

“Maybe I thought you might like a little piece of this.” The innuendo was only there if you looked for it. John found it. Sherlock did, too.

“Oh, is that so?” Sherlock asked dryly, not saying yes, but not saying no.

“I think you’d like it.” McGovern grinned like a shark who’d finally scented some blood in the water.

“This case is annoyingly obvious,” Sherlock said, gesturing with disdain to the poor sod dead on the ground. “I suppose I can spend an hour solving yours.”

“Well, actually, most of the files are at my flat by now. The case has mostly gone cold, it’s a couple months old, but I’ve still been working it in my free time.” McGovern shrugged, and John had a hard time deciding if he was genuinely dedicated to solving the case, or shamelessly using it to lure Sherlock into the same room as his bed.

“And still not solved? You must not have a lot of free time.” Sherlock said it without heat, but John couldn’t help but grin at the dig.

“I could certainly make some,” McGovern said without missing a beat, taking half a step closer to Sherlock. “For the right reason.”

“Your job isn’t reason enough?” John couldn’t resist tossing the question between the two detectives, even as he stood several paces behind them. McGovern barely spared him a glance before locking his gaze back on Sherlock’s mouth.

“When I’m on the job, it’s all I do,”

“Is that so?” John grumbled, raising an eyebrow. Its not like the cop hadn’t just spent the last five minutes unapologetically flirting next to a dead body.

“When I’m not,” the inspector said pointedly, attention on Sherlock but a muscle in his jaw jumped. “When I’m not on the job, I prefer to pursue the lesser evils and better pleasures.” John rolled his eyes as McGovern positively smoldered at the taller man.

“Right, well, Sherlock, we should be going. Even I can see how this bloke caught it.”

Sherlock looked back at John, his face appearing blank, but the doctor could see the glimmer of pride in his eyes.

“Can you?”

“Of course I can. It didn’t take me months.” Sherlock smiled a slight, private smile as he moved to leave the scene with his partner.

“You’ll come by later?” McGovern called after them.

“I suppose. A missing £500,000 is worth looking into.”

“Lovely. I’ll text you my address. See you around eight?”

John tugged Sherlock along by his grip on his hand.

 

They were home before John said anything. The door closed behind them and John made a beeline for the kettle, Sherlock for the couch.

“You know he’s flirting with you.” John didn’t need to clarify. He did need milk, though. None to be found.

“Of course I know.” Came a lackluster response. John could tell just from the sound of it that Sherlock had laid himself dramatically over the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, waiting for John to bring him tea. _‘Well, he’d just have to take it without milk, then.’_

“You don’t care?”

“Do you?”

“Not if that’s all it is,” John answered honestly, grabbing the teas before making his way to his lanky lover sprawled on the furniture. “One-sided infatuation isn’t anything I can’t deal with.” He nudged his elbow with a hip. “Budge up.”

Sherlock complied, lifting his upper body and allowing John to sit and place Sherlock’s tea on the table, before he flopped back down, immediately shoving John’s now empty but tea-warmed hand into his hair.

“John, you of all people should know how one sided infatuations can sometimes inspire a returned admiration,” Sherlock teased. John grinned down at him, tugging on dark locks.

“Well that wasn’t very one-sided to begin with, now was it?”

“No, I suppose it was not.” John leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s grin, before he reached over him, snagged his tea of the table and handed it to the detective.

“This is, though, yes? One-sided?” John affirmed, leaning back into the sofa.

“Do you honestly believe otherwise?” Sherlock asked, taking a couple sips before putting his tea back down and sitting up, John’s hand falling out of his hair.

“I just need to hear it,” John confessed. He wasn’t concerned that Sherlock would ever cheat on him, but jealously came as part of the territory with him. He downed the rest of his tea and grabbed Sherlock’s pale, cool hands in his own. “I need to hear that you don’t want him, then I can believe what I already know and get my hindbrain to shut it.”

Sherlock regarded him silently before slowly leaning in and kissing John with a smooth and measured slide of lips. He flicked his tongue over his lover’s bottom lip, his hands coming up to cup his face. John kissed him back, fully and hotly, a needy groan slipping from his throat as Sherlock’s tongue twisted into his mouth. Moments later, John pulled back, his hands wrapped around his genius’ wrists.

“I need you to say it,” he pleaded, breath short and stolen from kisses.

“How about I show you instead?” Sherlock murmured against his lips. “Come to bed, John.”

John growled and claimed Sherlock’s mouth again, licking quickly inside and reveling in the shudder of Sherlock’s breath around him. Hands knotted in the doctor’s jumper, Sherlock dragged him to his feet and pulled impatiently in the direction of the bedroom. They broke apart gasping, stumbling down the hall, John’s fingers yanking at plastic buttons. Busting through the bedroom door, Sherlock found himself being shoved roughly down onto the bed. He bounced once on the springy mattress before being compressed into it by a hard, hot body.

Sherlock head slammed back as John bit down roughly on the side of his neck. A guttural groan was pulled from his chest as John sucked what was sure to be a livid bruise into his pale skin. His shirt was pushed off his shoulders and pulled off his wrists, baring his chest to John’s frantic ministrations.

“Oh,” he gasps when teeth scraped over the soft pink of his nipple and a callused hand pressed against the straining fabric over his erection. “John, please,” he panted, hands fumbling as he tugged on the knitted cotton of the offending jumper. Pulling back, sitting on Sherlock’s hips, John yanked his jumper and shirt over his head and pulled both their belts from the loops.

“Say you’re mine,” John gasped against him as he covered Sherlock’s naked chest with his own. “Say you don’t want him.”

Sherlock growled, pushing against John’s chest and chasing him onto his back.

“Let me show you,” he insisted again, always one for avoiding talking about feelings if he could. John grinned, frustrated as he was. At least some things never changed.

Sherlock began a slow slide down the length of John’s body, laving wet kisses and blowing cold air across his chest and stomach, circling his tongue in the thick, dark hair under John’s belly button. Popping the button on his trousers and dragging both them and his pants down in one wrench, John found himself gasping as he was very suddenly surrounded by the heat of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Oh, yes, fuck, Sherlock,” John moaned, one hand coming up to card through Sherlock’s hair. Not pulling, not pushing, merely sliding through silken strands. Sherlock took him deeper, his tongue pressing hotly against the veiny underside. He bobbed his head and John’s toes curled. “Perfect, love, just perfect.” John looked down at his partner, lips stretched tightly around the thick base of his cock. He couldn’t help the rush of love he felt, thumbing across a flushed cheekbone. “Beautiful, Sherlock, you’re absolutely beautiful.” John could feel the smirk pull around his cock and he grinned too, smiling stupidly at the ceiling as Sherlock picked up his tempo with a furious concentration. He curled his tongue around the tip on the upstroke, swallowing around it on the down stroke. _‘Talented, bastard,’_ John thought before he felt the light scrape of teeth over his length and all thought shattered inside his head. In a very short amount of time, John found his whole body sweating and clenching. God, he was close, so fucking close.

“Stop,” he panted, the hand in Sherlock’s hair gently tugging him off.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, wiping his mouth and nuzzling against the crease of John’s tight and groin.

“You first,” John insisted, pushing himself up on one elbow. “You’re mine. That means it’s my job to take care of you.”

“John, if you’re just now realizing this, what exactly have you believed this relationship was based upon?”

“Hush, you,” John said with a dark smile. He tugged on Sherlock until the lanky man clambered up the bed to lie next to him. John buried his face in his neck, sucking again on the brilliantly red spot he’d left there previously. “I want to take care of you,” he whispered against the raw skin, his voice rough from desire.

“That’s what I was doing,” Sherlock said with an attempted pout. But as John ground the heel of his hand against the base of his erection, the pout turned into a bite as Sherlock tried not to moan aloud. John licked around the shell of his ear, breath ruffling Sherlock’s hair. He suppressed a shiver when John tugged on his earlobe.

“You’re mine,” John said again. “Let me take care of you?”

Sherlock’s will collapsed, giving into the pleasure John promised. “Yes, John.” John hummed in approval, nipping along the detective’s jaw line.

“How do you want to come, love?” John asked. “What do you want?”

Sherlock struggled to answer. He wanted John inside him, wanted to be intimately joined, but he didn't know if he could wait that long. He was burning for John, he needed him now.

“Your mouth,” he finally answered, his reply riding a moan as John bit down on the ridge of his collar bone. “And your fingers. Please.”

John groaned in desire, snagging the lube off the bedside table before moving down the bed to settle between Sherlock’s wantonly spread legs.

“Fuck, yes, you beautiful creature, you,” John sighed against the skin of Sherlock’s thighs. Kissing his way form knee to groin, John took him into his mouth, sliding his tongue along the length before closing his lips tightly around the head. Hard suction, the kind that made Sherlock see stars, and a slow slide soon had Sherlock’s thighs quivering. John closed his eyes and focused on the slide of hot, hard flesh past his lips, filling his mouth. He heard Sherlock gasping and cursing above him, so vocal, so open.

John popped the cap on the bottle, the sound alone making Sherlock moan and twitch his hips in anticipation, his legs falling farther apart. John pulled off his cock, letting it slap wetly against his smooth expanse of stomach before nuzzling and sucking at his tightly drawn bollocks. On long fingered hand cupped the back of John’s head, pulling him in close as Sherlock canted his hips up. Taking the hint, John quickly slicked two fingers, spilling a bit on the sheets in the process, and gently circled Sherlock fluttering hole.

“Mhmmm,” John hummed around the testicle in his mouth before letting it go, vibrations making Sherlock arch. “That’s right, ‘Lock, let me in.”

Sherlock whimpered at the vulgarity of it, pulling his knees closer to his ears and taking a breath to help relax himself for the intrusion. When John’s finger finally breached him, he couldn’t help keening loudly, pushing his hips aggressively up into John’s face. One finger became two and they traced teasingly around his prostate, John’s hot breath dusting over Sherlock’s neglected erection.

“John,” Sherlock panted before having to swallow, his throat dry from ragged breathing. “John, please.”

“Say you’re mine,” John asked, flicking his tongue over the ridge of his frenulum and twisting his fingers deeper inside his body.

“Gah,” Sherlock gasped, legs spasming at the dual sensation.

“Say you’re mine,” John said, much more pleading this time. He may be in the position of control, but he wasn’t. Grinding his aching cock into the mattress, John was worshipping the man wrapped around him, his heart and head spinning with the need to hear he was his.

“John,” Sherlock groaned, grinding his hips down against John’s hand, swiveling them to force his fingers over his prostate.

“Say it, Sherlock,” John begged, pressing his forehead against the flat of his partner’s abdomen. “Tell me I’m an idiot, tell me I'm being stupid, please, tell me you’re all mine, because I am so completely yours, I don’t know where I start and you begin.”

Sherlock sobbed in aching pleasure, his whole body clenching and shaking, hands tearing at the sheets as he rode John’s hand and soaked in his words.

“Yes, John, yes, please,” he pled, head tossing left and right as he fought for more sensation. He was rewarded by a thick, slow stroke of tongue along his length. Sherlock could’ve cried.

“Say it,” John entreated, breath humid as he spoke against the head of the brunet’s cock.

“Yours,” Sherlock gasped, eyes shuttering open as John sucked his prick quickly into his mouth, his fingers pressing against his inner walls. “Yours, God, John, yours,” he vowed, both hands grabbing at John’s head and shoulder, arcing off the bed as John sucked him in deep, painting the back of his throat with thin spurts of come, his body trembling and voice hoarse from the strength of it.

As soon as Sherlock’s body fell back down to earth, John was pulling his slick hand from his quivering hole to frantically fist his cock, pressing his face in the sweaty and humid cradle of his lover’s hips. A shaking and clammy hand landed on the back of his neck and Sherlock’s broken voice whispered “yours” again and again until John came, gasping, onto the sheets.

When John had reestablished command of his body, he pulled the soiled and sweaty sheet out from under his spent genius and tossed it to the ground, grabbing the duvet instead and spooning up behind Sherlock. Sherlock hummed, nestling back into the warmth of his soldier’s chest. John squeezed Sherlock against him, pressing his face into the curve of his neck.

“Thank you,” he whispered against damp, flushed skin.

Sherlock merely sighed, twining the fingers of one hand with those of John’s pressing together over the detective’s slowing heart.

“I do trust you, you know,” John felt compelled to admit. “I’d never doubt you, I hope you know that.” Sherlock hummed noncommittally. “It’s just,” john sighed heavily. “I needed to hear it. So when I have to see that smug bastard again, I can remember you saying that you were mine, no matter what. I just needed the memory.”

“Like, for your Mind Palace?” Sherlock asked hesitantly.

“Yeah, sorta like that,” John agreed, hugging Sherlock closer to him. They were quiet for a moment as Sherlock contemplated this.

“I can’t say I completely understand, but I have moments and conversations with you saved in my gallery,” Sherlock admitted quietly.

“Hmm?” John asked, eyes closed, forehead resting against the knob at the base of his partner’s neck. “Like what?”

“Like the first time you told me you loved me,” came the quiet, shy reply. John pressed his lips to his tender skin, nipping lightly in approval.

“I remember that, too.”

“And when I realized I loved you back. And the first time you introduced me as your partner. And when you made me watch that dreadful movie.”

John laughed a full bodied laugh.

“If you hated it so much, why’d you save it?” he chuckled, sucking dark kisses to his nape.

“That was the first time we cuddled.” John could see his ear tips flushing with embarrassment. “I liked that.” John smiled to himself, knowing it would only embarrass the detective more if he knew how hard he was grinning.

“Well, I’m very glad,” John assured him, holding him close and listening to the restless detective slowly slip into a peaceful, post orgasmic sleep.


	6. Devoted pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here is part 2! I posted them together, literally within seconds, so that those who have bookmarked this (thanks so much, btw!) will know that the Author's Note was replaced by Part 1 of this chapter. Shorter thn the first half, but I think it sums things up nicely. Hope you continue to enjoy :)

“Well, well, well,” McGovern said, slimy smile in place as Sherlock entered the precinct. “Looks like the big, bad detective got a bit of rough last night.” Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. People had been staring at the bright and obvious hickey on his neck the entire way here from 221B. He did his best to ignore the DI, making his way instead towards the elevators, searching out the inspector he was actually here to see.

“Busy, McGovern, find someone else to bother,” he said dismissively, sweeping by.

McGovern was not deterred. He tagged along right behind Sherlock, following him to the lifts.

“What, no details?” he prodded. Sherlock continued looking straight ahead. “Fine, don’t tell me,” McGovern said with a sly grin. “I’ll stick to my imagination. It’s much more potent anyway. More visceral.”

“Don’t repulse me,” Sherlock sneered. “With the amount of case you close, your thought processes could be better utilized in, perhaps, doing your job.”

Unluckily, no one else seemed to be going up as the lift doors opened. Just the two of them, then.

“How’d you have it?” McGovern asked, nudging him with an elbow as they stepped into the lifts. Sherlock huffed a breath of annoyance before turning to face him for the first time.

“Don’t make the mistake of believing us to be any more than colleagues. Barely even that. We will not discuss any sexual exploits, we are not _mates._ ” Sherlock’s voice was cool and decisive. “I do not find you to be horrible company, you are not as idiotic as the rest of the vermin who inhabit this place. Do not ruin it.”

McGovern was silent for a moment, regarding Sherlock carefully.

“You know, you’re not the only one who can deduce a few things,” he asserted with a cocky quirk of his brow, completely ignoring Sherlock very unsubtle suggestion to piss off. Sherlock answered with his own dubious look. McGovern took another step closer, looking the detective over with hungry eyes.

“That bite is too big to be a woman’s, I would think. It’s rough, very obvious, clearly a claim, a message” he licked his lips, eyes glittering with the challenge.” Could’ve been left from the front or the back, hard to tell with where it is. One would be telling, the other…” McGovern gave him a mischievous grin. “Well, that could go either way.” Sherlock looked away, thinking about what John would say about this exchange, how his jaw would clench and his eyes would blaze. He thought about that, his John, the image helping him to ignore the overpowering scent of much too much cologne.

Sherlock was too caught in the image to be able to deflect McGovern’s hand before it snagged him by the collar, pulling it back to expose the other hickey centered on his nape. Sherlock jerked away, face contorting in indignation, his skin crawling from where the man’s knuckles had brushed before Sherlock slapped his hand away.

“Ah, the back, then,” the officer said with a weasel’s grin. “I like that. That’s exactly how I imagine you’d take it.” The lift doors open and Sherlock stepped out, only to round on McGovern, stepping into his space and glowering at the slightly shorter man, vibrating with scarcely contained rage.

“You don’t ever get to touch me,” he hissed, eyes alight. “Ever. Just because you have yet to develop a taste for the local flavor, haven’t had a reply from either of the two dating websites you frequent and haven’t had a decent lay since before you moved does not give you free range to assault people. Especially not me.” Sherlock turned on his heel, fully prepared to leave the offending man in the dust.

McGovern made the second worst decision of the day, and caught the genius’ wrist, pulling him around to face him again, stepping in close so that Sherlock could feel his breath on his face. He suppressed a disgusted shudder.

“What makes you special, then? Why can’t you give a bloke a shot?” McGovern asked, licking his lips and gazing at Sherlock’s mouth with heavy lids in a carefully calculated act. Sherlock sneered, not pulling back but spitting his reply directly into the coppers face.

“One would do well to exercise caution when pursuing a man capable of making you disappear without a single question asked. Especially when that man belongs to an army man with a temper and many friends on the force. An altercation with him might not end the way you think. Full of surprised, my John. He would crush you like a pill bug and not think a thing of it. Or perhaps I will tell the DCI exactly _why_ you were transferred. They didn't call it sexual harassment, but that’s what it was, wasn’t it?” McGovern’s slimy grin fell from his face, leaving him slack jawed and dim looking. “Yes, I thought so. Probably don’t want that getting around then, hmm?” Sherlock flashed him a cold, angry baring of teeth. “Don’t ever touch me again. Or you will regret it in so many ways, you’ll have trouble counting them.”

Leaving the dumbfounded man behind, Sherlock stormed to Lestrade’s office in a flurry of coat and righteous fury.

 

 

“You know, he’d really not interested,” John said conversationally, leaning against the counter in the Yard’s kitchenette, making coffees for himself and Greg. McGovern had scowled when John had walked in, but apparently showed no shame in having been caught ogling the man’s partner from across the room. Sherlock lounged in the chair in front of Lestrade’s desk, looking long and lean and edible.

“Oh, he might change his mind,” he said with completely unfounded confidence. It had been a handful of days since he’d been told off by the detective. The inspector had since chocked it up to a bad job and had since begun tentatively edging his way back into Sherlock’s good graces. It had yet to work, but he was hopeful. No one could charm like Chandler McGovern could.

“After that stunt you pulled in the lifts?” John laughed incredulously. “I really don’t think so.”

“You’ve got a lot of faith in him,” McGovern observed with a calculating expression, the kind that told John he likely did rather well in interrogations. “I can’t say it’s all warranted.”

John merely stared down at the coffees he was making, a small, private smile on his face.

“Let’s look at the facts, Watson,” McGovern began, affecting a calm and rational demeanor, setting the tea he’d been nursing down on the counter.

“Doctor,” John corrected, leveling a steely gaze at the man.

“Doctor,” McGovern sneered back. “Look at him. Just look at him and tell me what you see. He’s young, gorgeous, and insanely smart. Men like that,” he gestured to Sherlock, eyes devouring him as he spoke. “They know better than to believe in monogamy. He could have anyone he wants. And then there’s you,” the officer looked him up and down disdainfully. “What makes you so sure he won’t take me up on my offer?”

“I know him,” John answered simply, his face impassive though his hands clenched around the mugs so tightly the ceramic whined.

“He’s a man of logic,” the cop pushed forward, attempting to tower over the shorter man. But John Watson made a daily habit of standing up to Sherlock Holmes, and before that it was army grunts. It took a lot to make John Watson back down. And McGovern didn't have nearly enough. “Logically,” he continued, undaunted by John refusal to cave. “He must know that he can do much better than you.”

“Like you, then?” John asked with an easy grin, looking to all the world calm and comfortable. McGovern found his nonchalance infuriating. “You think your good enough for him?” was John’s baiting retort.

“And you are?” the DI answered with a bark of angry laughter, nostrils flaring. “You are nowhere close. You’re past your prime. Soft, slow, a homebody. Sherlock Holmes needs much more than that. How much longer do you think you’ll hold his interest? How long before he comes looking for a real man?” The man sneered, thinking himself victorious as John stared up at him, blank faced. Tension built and the two men fought a battle of wills not easily won. The gauntlet had been thrown down. The inspector waited to see if John would pick it up.

“See, that’s what you don’t get,” John’s voice, when it came, was cool and level and completely calm. “It’s not about being good enough. No one is _good enough_. He’s better than anyone here. But you know what makes him mine?” John asked, his voice taking on a dangerous tone, a challenging tone that the cop could not help but rise to.

“What?” the DI snarled, his theatric façade breaking as anger and aggression spilled over. Apparently, he didn't take rejection well. “What makes you worth it?”

“He _chose_ me,” John said simply, turning his back on the stewing man and making his way to his lover. Setting the drinks on the desk, McGovern watched as John threaded his fingers into that mop of curly head, bending down to kiss his forehead. McGovern seethed as the taller man turned his face up into the frumpy doctor’s kiss. The easy smile the two shared was too much and McGovern’s cold cup of tea caught the brunt of his anger as he swiped it from the counter, sending it crashing to the floor. The sound drew the attention of the Yard and of the consultant. And that bastard doctor didn't even turn to look, grinning that smug, stupid grin. McGovern stormed to his desk. He didn't need that lanky git anyway. He was sure he could find a much easier lay. One who wasn’t so devoted to someone so horribly average. _‘If that’s what Sherlock Holmes likes, I’d be wasted on him.’_

 

 

“Looks like I won the pool,” Greg Lestrade said, grinning like fool over top of a stack of paperwork.

“There was a pool?” Sherlock asked in disbelief.

“Of course there was,” the DI laughed. “I told them all you’d never go for that. You’re too faithful, too loyal. It’s about time some of these cops knew it.”

“I’m sorry, the yarder’s bet that Sherlock would actually get off with that creep?” John asked indignantly, brows nearly touching his hairline.

Greg merely shrugged, grinning at their two frowns.

“I told them you were too loyal for it, that you’d never go for the shit that guy is always spewing.”

“You didn't do a very good job of convincing them,” John admonished. Sherlock mumbled something about shoddy work manifesting in all areas of life.

“Why would I have tried to talk them out of it?” Lestrade asked. “I just made £60 and proved to those knobs that you’re not such a heartless bastard after all.” Greg leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach and grinning slyly at the boys. “I don’t know about you, Holmes, but I’m calling this a good day.”


	7. Possessive but Silly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter, a little lighter than the others, it answers a suggestion I got in the comments, and I hope you like it :)

 

“Mr. Holmes?” a strange voice called. “Mr. Holmes, can you hear me?”

Sherlock’s eyes cracked open, taking longer than usual to focus on the white ceiling and strange doctor. Not his doctor. Pushing up on his elbows, Sherlock spotted John leaning against the foot of his bed, smiling bemusedly. Sherlock grinned widely at him, his mouth feeling strange and numb. He was pretty sure he was smiling, though.

“Mr. Holmes?” the doctor asked again. “Can you tell me how you feel?”

Sherlock smiled again, flopping back onto the bed and smiling stupidly at the ceiling. “I feel great,” he slurred, his voice sounding very far away, like he was hearing it from underwater. His mouth still felt weird. But that didn't seem important, because when he wiggled his toes, his whole body tingled. “Why do I feel so great?” he asked, his head lolling to the side to look at John. He smiled again. _John_.

“That’s just the nitrous oxide wearing off.” The doctor said, looking down at a clipboard in her hands. A tinny voice in Sherlock’s head whispered ‘ _dentist, single mom’_ to him, but that didn't seem important because he was still looking at John and John was looking at him and Sherlock was still smiling.

“Jawn,” he said happily growing less and less concerned by how garbled his words sounded. John didn't look concerned, Sherlock trusted his doctor’s judgment. “Jawn, I feel fantastic.”

“Oh, I'm sure you do,” John said grinning at him. “No pain?” he asked.

“I feel wonderful, Jaaaawwwwwn,” Sherlock replied, drawing out John’s name for a good four extra seconds.

“Mr. Holmes, you might experience some discomfort when the gas wears off, but the root canal went well, you should be feeling right as rain in no time.” The doctor said, smiling gently down at the loopy man. “Give it another ten or fifteen minutes before you try to walk, but you’re clear to leave whenever.”

“Thank you, Doctor Wesseros,” John said politely as the dentist left the room. He looked back to his detective to see that the man was still staring at him with the same, stupid grin on his face. “What?” John laughed.

“Jawn, you are beautiful,” Sherlock answered solemnly. John laughed again.

“Hold on, don’t move, let me go get Greg.” John said.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock nearly lurched out of the chair, all uncoordinated and gangly. “There’s a case?”

“Nope,” John said, happily popping the ‘p.’ “He just wanted to come see you looped on happy gas. No case, settle yourself down.”

Sherlock would’ve huffed, but his mouth didn't work right and he just spit a little. John merely grinned at him before stepping out of the room.

John grinned the entire way down the hall, laughing at the ridiculous smile on his partner’s face. Seeing Greg chatting up some football mom in the lobby made his grin even wider.

“How is he?” Greg asked, waving goodbye to the woman and following John back down the hall.

“High as a kite, and happy as can be,” John said with a chuckle.

“I never thought I’d ever want to see him high again,” Greg said with a rueful smile. “This won’t affect his sobriety, will it?” he asked, suddenly worried sick.

“No, not at all,” John hurried to assure. “Completely different brain processes.”

“Good, now I can really enjoy this,” Greg said, his good mood returning in full force.

“I have to ask, though, Greg,” John said, stopping outside the door to the room Sherlock was recovering in. “Why did you really want to come see him? Surely seeing a loopy Sherlock isn’t really worth wasting your day off on, right?” John eyed the greyer man suspiciously. There had to be more to this. John wouldn’t pass up his one day to have a good lie-in with his boyfriend if he didn't have to, and he knew Mycroft was leaving London in just a couple days.

“Alright,” Greg said sheepishly. “I need to ask him a couple questions about his case he stole from me a couple days ago, and he hasn’t been giving me straight answers. I thought this would be my best shot.” Greg shrugged. He was just trying to do his job, after all.

John barked a laugh and shook his head.

“I can’t believe I'm condoning this, but if it’s for justice,” John trailed off, biting back a smile at the solemn look in Greg’s face.

“For justice, John.”

John pushed open the door and was greeted by a very relaxed detective.

“Jawn,” he drawled happily, lolling his head to the side to grin at his soldier with heavy lidded eyes. Before his eyes narrowed on the other guest and he frowned slightly. “Jawn, why is Lestrade here?”

“Sherlock,” John said slowly, pointing with his thumb towards a smiling Inspector. “I told you just before I left. You don’t remember?” His brow creased with amused concern, especially when the detective began tapping his lip contemplatively.

“Maybe,” he answered, his large hand rolling on his wrist through the air the same way his head was lolling on his neck when he tried to sit up. “Not important.”

“He doesn’t seem all that different,” Greg murmured to John.

Sherlock glared angrily at him.

“Stop whispering to Jawn,” he said petulantly, sticking his lower lip out, the movement exaggerated by the numbing agent in his mouth, making his lips protrude much farther than he likely intended. “ _I_ whisper to Jawn. He’s my whisperer. You don’t get to whisper to him.” Sherlock waved his arm about imperiously, working himself up further when the two men began laughing at his jealous show. “Stop giggling,” he demanded in what was not at all a very pouty voice. “ _I_ get to laugh with Jawn, you don’t. He’s mine, he giggles for me.” Sherlock glared daggers at Lestrade, his anger softening into distress when he saw John laughing as well. “ _Jawn,_ ” he whined, flopping down onto his back. “Stop it, that’s mine,” he said to the ceiling. “And you’re just giving it away.”

“Giving what away, Sherlock?” the doctor asked, coming up to stand by his friend’s head, fingers falling into his hair.

Sherlock was still frowning fiercely, even as he leaned into the hand sending rockets of sensation across his scalp. “You’re giggles,” Sherlock whined. “You giggle for me. You didn't do that when I first met you, you only laughed for me. _I_ did that, _I_ made you laugh. Now anyone does.” Sherlock crossed his arms and pouted at the ceiling, seeing animals and chemical formulas in the stains on the ceiling tiles.

“Oh, love,” John sighed, grinning happily down at his lover. He looked up at Greg to see him smiling softly too. “Don’t worry, ‘Lock,” the doctor whispered, leaning in to nuzzle the detective’s ear. “You’ll always make me laugh the most.”

Greg watched as Sherlock’s frown turned into a blinding smile and he turned towards his partner, tossing limp limbs around his neck and shoulders. John laughed as Sherlock pressed a wet, uncoordinated and numb kiss to his cheek.

“Alright now,” John said chuckling, disentangling himself but for a hand left to comb through black curls.

“No, come back,” Sherlock whined, one hand gripping John’s jumper. “I feel like having sex.”

John’s cheeks flamed when Sherlock continued to grapple at him and Greg burst into full-bodied laughter.

“Let’s hold off until you can kiss properly.” John wiped across his mouth. “With a little less spit.” That sent both Greg and Sherlock into giggles and John gazed down fondly as his lover’s face contorted with good-natured laughter. Sherlock looked back at John, his pupils wide and his face open and happy.

“You really do look beautiful, Jawn,” Sherlock insisted earnestly, his head nodding rapidly.

“That’s good to know, dear,” John said, brushing a hand across his cheekbone. The patient leaned into him, humming happily. Opening his eyes, Sherlock saw the gentle grin on Lestrade’s face as he watched the couple.

“Why’re you here?” Sherlock asked, not unkindly but with a curious tilt to his head.

Greg hesitated for a moment, eyes drifting from the possessive grip the brunet had on his lover’s wrist to the pure adoration in John’s eyes as he gazed down at tousled curls to the easy, open look of happiness on the usually reserved detective’s face.

“You know what,” Greg began. “No reason.”

John looked up, surprised and confused, totally missing Sherlock’s dismissive comment; “Plebeians, never know where they’re going, or what they're doing. Must be horrible. Jawn, I’m so happy you’re you.” He rolled onto his side, curling his body closer to his blogger.

“But what about the case?” John asked, absentmindedly still stroking the purring genius before him.

“Eh, it’s alright,” Greg said with a grin and a shrug. “I’ll just ask Myc what he knows.”

John chuckled.

“If you could do that, why bother coming down at all?” he asked, his eyes glittering cheerily. Greg shrugged again.

“I thought it would be fun getting information out of Sherlock that he wouldn’t have given me otherwise. But, I don’t know, seeing him like this, it doesn’t seem as fun as it did before.”

“No?” John asked distractedly, looking back at the detective that was currently pawing at his chest, seemingly trying to encourage John to pet him more. The soldier smiled lovingly as he brushed curls off of his partner’s slightly clammy forehead, the other hand running down the long line of his back.

“Nah, he just seems so,” Greg trailed off, looking for a word that fit the strangeness of what he was seeing. “Cute? I guess?” he said, unsure of what he was looking at. John barked a laugh.

“Don’t ever call him that again,” he cautioned. “I don’t think he’d like that very much.”

Something that sounded a lot like “I’m not cute,” drifted out from the space next to John’s hip, where Sherlock had buried his face, hands clenched in soft cotton, inhaling the scent of hand sanitizer, tea and gun oil.

“Okay, I’m off then.” Greg said with a cheeky grin. “I’ve got my own genius to cuddle.”

Greg left the room with a smile on his face, growing ever wider as he heard the sound of Sherlock gagging exaggeratedly and clumsily cursing the day he and his brother had ever met. He shook his head, feeling warm and bubbly at the thought of having glimpsed the soft, needy underbelly of Sherlock Holmes. It gave him a lot of hope as to what Mycroft might have in store for him. If Sherlock could be jealous over a shared giggle, surely Mycroft could learn to love him back.


	8. Panicked and Relieved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than some of the ones before it, but I've had it saved for a while and this seemed like a good work to add it into :) Still taking suggestions; if there's something you'd like to read, leave me a comment, I'll see if I can hack it!
> 
> Also, not betaed or britpicked, although I do try my best, I am absolutely terrible at proofreading my own works!

Sherlock prowled around the body, taking slow and measured steps as he carefully observed all there is to see. Woman, early thirties, death by strangulation, clothing rumpled, brunette, no jewelry missing, worked for a fashion agency, purse not with the body, though she definitely carried one, one with a long strap. She was meticulous in her hygiene and, below the smell of death and decay, she smelled of apples.

' _John likes apples.’_ The thought just appeared in his head. He did like apples of course, although why that was relevant now, he didn't know.

 _'Where even was John?’_ he thought to himself as he knelt by the victims head. The killer had used some sort of belt or strap to strangle her with. _‘I texted him nearly an hour ago, why isn’t he here?’_

“Where’s John?” Lestrade asked, perhaps having seen Sherlock check his phone, perhaps only just now realizing John wasn’t there. Likely the latter; Sherlock himself often was oblivious to John’s presence at times. Or, well, that wasn’t quite true. Whenever John was around, Sherlock felt his radiating warmth like a sun. It was in his absence when Sherlock would take his presence for granted, assuming he was there because Sherlock always felt him there.

 “Where’s the purse?” Sherlock asked, ignoring the inspectors question in favor of his own.

 “I dunno, maybe the killer took it?” Lestrade offered, looking around the alley as if, by chance, Sherlock might’ve simply missed seeing it. _‘Idiot.’_

“If the killer took her purse, why not take her jewelry?” Sherlock asked. “Or her shoes.”

“Her shoes?” Lestrade asked, squatting down to look at the girls feet. “What’s special about her shoes?”

“What, got yourself a bit of a fetish, eh, freak?” Donovan jeered from the sidelines, where she waited impatiently and pointlessly with Anderson.

Both questions went unanswered, however, because at that same moment, Sherlock’s phone rang.

“Here, answer this,” Sherlock said, tossing his phone to Lestrade.

“What? No, I'm not your assistant,” Lestrade said, trying to hand the phone back. Sherlock didn't take it though.

Only one person ever called him.

Mycroft.

 Lestrade could deal with him.

“Sherlock, caller ID says this is coming from Bart’s.” the inspector said.

“It might be important then, yes?” Sherlock asked without looking, eyes instead on a piece of long, blonde hair on the victim’s coat. “You’d better answer it, then.” Lestrade grumbled something that sounded like a lot of vulgarity all mixed together, but he did eventually answer the phone.

“Hello?” he asked gruffly, clearly upset at having to play secretary. “No, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mr. Holmes is a bit busy at the moment, can he call you back?” Lestrade listened for a moment before his eyes went wide and his face paled. “ _Fuck!_ ” he cursed, wiping a hand down his face. “Is he okay?”

The consultant looked up, taking in the copper’s distress with one glance and playing back the audio from moments before. He stood in one elegant, fluid motion and in two steps he was crowding into Lestrade’s space, snatching the phones from his hand and pressing it to his ear.

“This is Sherlock Holmes,” he said. Listening intently to the sound coming from the other line.

“Yes, hello, thank God I got a hold of you,” said a frantic and stressed sounding woman. The background was filled with people’s voices, beeping and a child crying. Definitely the hospital, then. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I have your partner, a Mr. John Watson,”

“Dr. Watson,” Sherlock corrected automatically, even as his heart jumped into his throat.

“Yes, well, Dr. Watson,” she said hurriedly, obviously perturbed at being interrupted. “Anyway, Dr. Watson came in to the A&E as part of a four-car wreck. He’s suffering from a severe head trauma and massive internally bleeding. We believe his spleen has been ruptured and we need your permission to operate.”

Sherlock felt as though his stomach had dropped to his feet. The blood drained from his face and he swayed where he stood. He felt Lestrade reach out to steady him, but couldn’t seem to communicate to his shoulder to shrug him off.

Sherlock couldn’t move. He felt frozen in that spot on the pavement of a dirty, dark ally, miles away from John.

He suddenly found he couldn’t breathe. His breath was coming in short gasps and his chest felt tight.

“Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes?” he heard over the line, but he couldn’t find the breath to answer.

“Sherlock, is he okay? Sherlock?” Lestrade was shaking him, looking at him with wide, concerned eyes. “Sherlock, tell me what's wrong with John!”

“Mr. Holmes, I need an answer. As his emergency contact and power of attorney, I need you to answer me.” But Sherlock couldn’t breathe.

“Sherlock, tell me what's going on?”

“John needs you.”

Suddenly, Sherlock brain caught fire again, kick starting back to life as he sucked in a painful breath.

“Yes, yes, I’m here, I’m still here,” he said into the phone, pushing away Lestrade’s hands. His voice sounded strange even to him and his vision was blurring. _‘Shock, it must be shock,’_ Sherlock told himself, even as he wiped away one errant tear with the back of his hand. “Explain it to me again.” He demanded.

“Dr. Watson was in a car accident. He had a severe concussion and several broken ribs, one of which we believe has punctured his spleen, leading to massive internal bleeding.” The nurse repeated, sounded hurried and impatient.

“Internal bleeding,” Sherlock repeated dumbly, his hand shaking and his knees feeling weak. Lestrade’s eyes went wide and fearful, and he started barking orders at an open-mouthed and gaping Donovan. She didn't hear him at first, instead entranced by the tears tracking down the sociopath’s cheeks, listening to the robot’s voice crack. Lestrade shouted again, and Donovan finally drug her eyes from a sight she never thought she’d see; a crying Sherlock Holmes.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, and we need to operate. As his power of attorney, we need your permission before we can go in.”

“I’m his power of attorney?” Sherlock asked, shock and fear and _pain_ digging harshly into his chest and twisting around his heart.

“Yes, you are Sherlock Holmes, are you not?” the nurse asked hurriedly.

“Well, yes, but I just didn't know—” Sherlock said uselessly before the nurse cut him off.

“We need to operate, Mr. Holmes, sooner, rather than later.” she said, all business. “Can we operate?”

“What are the other options? Possible complications?” Sherlock asked, shaking his head as he fought to keep his brain clear, as he fought to think for John. His brain was too sluggish, too shocked to properly deduce the answers to his own questions.

“There are no other options,” the nurse said impatiently. “He’s bleeding into his abdomen; we have to go in to stop it. We have very good surgeons on staff; the only complication could come from the effect of the anesthesia on the head trauma.

“You’re saying he might not wake up?” Sherlock asked, his voice cracked and a new volley of not-tears were blinked from his eyes. The nurse took a deep breath and held it for half a second.

“If he don’t operate now, he’ll bleed out into his own body. This is his only shot, and we need to operate now. Do we have your permission, sir?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, wiping another tear from his cheek. “Yes, you can operate.”

“Yes, good, thank you,” she said quickly, clearing moving to hang up.

“Wait!” Sherlock called into the phone. “How can I find him, I need to be there.” In the back of his mind he realized he was crying and begging in front of half the Met’s homicide division, but John was hurt and Sherlock _needed to be there!_

“My name is Nurse Halloway, I’ll be in post-op, find me and when he comes out, I’ll make sure you get to him.”

“Yes, yes, thank you,” Sherlock said, and Donovan wasn’t sure if she’d ever heard him say that before in his life. The phone went dead in his hand and for one heartbreaking moment, the Yarder’s just watched as Sherlock started at the black screen of the inactive phone, seemingly disconnected from the entire world.

It was Lestrade who shook him back into motion.

“Sherlock, c’mon, we’ll take a Met car, get their way faster with the siren,” he said, grabbing Sherlock by the upper arm and towing him towards the car. “Donovan, you’ve got the scene, Anderson take care of evidence. Call me when you know anything.”

“You too,” Donovan said with an aborted step forward. As Sherlock’s shell-shocked and red-rimmed eyes locked on her face, she cleared her throat awkwardly. “When you hear about Watson,” she elaborated. “You know, let us know.”

“Will do,” Lestrade said with a strained smile before shutting a trembling detective into his car.

 

 

 

The wait was excruciating. Greg didn't remember ever seeing Sherlock so stressed, so volatile. Stalking around the waiting room, demanding updates from anyone who might know anything. Several hours of exhaustingly high-strung pacing and finally John was brought out of surgery, set up in a post-op room and the doctor permitted Sherlock to go see him.

It had been a while since he’d come out and he still hadn’t woken up, but the nurses hadn’t seemed worried. What worried them was the way Sherlock had clambered up onto the bed and curled around John’s legs like a giant cat.

Greg had sat against the wall and watched in disbelief as Sherlock curled into a feotal position around John’s knees, resting his chin on his hip bone and staring up at his face with a complicated expression. His long fingers played absently with the blanket covering John’s thighs and he only moved back just enough for the nurse to check that everything was still in place and well bandaged. It was very clear, however, that Sherlock’s hackles were raised by anyone who came into the room. It seemed as though he didn't want anyone touching John until he was awake and healthy.

Sherlock had finally dozed off into a fitful sleep, cozy in his unnatural position, face pressed into John’s hip. Greg stayed up, running the evidence processing through texts and communicating with Donovan about possible leads. And yes, he might’ve been texting Mycroft as well, trying to distract him from what was probably actually very important paperwork. He looked up, however, when he heard a snuffle from the bed.

He was just about to tell Sherlock to go back to sleep, nothing had changed, when he saw that it was John’s eyes that were open. He smiled, a relieved smile at seeing his friend looking alert and cognizant. John’s hand immediately and reflexively rose to card through his brunet’s hair.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Greg quipped quietly.

“How long has he been out?” John replied ever quieter.

“Not long, maybe thirty minutes,” Greg whispered. John looked down at his pale detective, hand rubbing softly through his hair as the taller man unconsciously nuzzled closer to him.

“How was he?” John asked, concern in his eyes.

“He was a wreck, John,” the inspector answered honestly. “He was an absolute mess. He nearly went into shock when the hospital called. Left a crime scene, actually rode in one of my cars. Cried in front of Donovan and Anderson for Christ’s sakes.”

John gave a soft smile, gazing adoringly at his partner, lips slightly parted in sleep.

“At least I know I'm not the only one who loses it,” John said with a slight chuckle. It shook Sherlock gently but didn't wake him. John seemed to regret it, however, sucking in a harsh breath at the pain likely flaring up in his side.

“Nurse?” Lestrade asked, already standing up from his chair.

“Please,” John answered with a pained smile.

Walking to the door, Greg got his first good look of the detective since he’d curled up on the foot of the bed. His face was calm and slack in sleep, but his fingers were clenched tightly in the blanket over John’s legs, looking for all the world like it would take the forces of hell to drag him away.

But when John scraped his hands again over his scalp, Sherlock leaned back into the stroke, a sleepy smile gracing his lips as he took comfort in being close to the man he’d do anything to keep. And could never live without.


	9. Jealous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not much for you, but I liked the prompt and thought this one was better short and simple :)

 

Sherlock sat rigid in his seat, vibrating with angry energy as he watched the couple across the pub. The women leaned forward, pinning her breast together between her elbows in a move she likely learned in pigtails. The man fell for it, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he reached out to push her loose brown curls back over her shoulder before they swayed into her fish and chips. His hand brushed her neck lightly as he withdrew.

Sherlock shook, his tightly clenched fist in the table top.

_Analyst for a communications company. Dyed greys, but still smooth face, late thirties, greying early, stressful job. Only wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, lots of squinting, lots of smiling, eye drops in her purse, spends a lot of time staring at computer screens. Clothes imitation of name brands, but good ones. Her purse is genuine but the expense caused her shoes to suffer. Four seasons past and clearly very well worn. Jewelry to the season, if a little much for a night at the pub. Clearly looking for someone to take her home. Rings on several fingers, but not married. Has a small child, sickly, a girl. Staying with her sister currently, who is watching the child now as her mother swoons over a man in a pub._

Sherlock looked away, attempting to focus on anyone except the couple he was supposed to be watching, studying. He knew enough about both of them, he needed to watch the interaction. But the sight made him sick.

His fist shook on the table, fingernails digging into the meat of his palm.

The man leaned forward, saying something undoubtedly charming. The woman laughed, surprise and amusement on her face. She wasn’t acting, she thought him genuinely funny. She liked him quite a bit.

Sherlock’s stomach turned.

She reached across the table and began tracing her nail idly over the skin of his palm, flipped up to her. He twitched. He was ticklish there.

Sherlock clenched his hand painfully, bone creaking, skin protesting.

She leaned across the table, only barely escaping dragging her long and low hanging necklace through her food, to whisper into his ear.

He pulled back to look into her eyes as he nodded and said something else likely charismatic and lovely. She beamed at him and stood, coming to his side of the table and draping her arms over his shoulders, dropping her head to whisper against his neck.

Sherlock nearly wretched.

He couldn’t do this anymore, he couldn’t watch this display.

He couldn’t sit here and watch while his insides felt as though they were being wrenched up and out.

“Text me when they leave,” he said tightly, swirling up out of his seat, leaving a sympathetically grimacing Lestrade and a rather smug looking Donovan behind. Pushing through the back door of the pub, Sherlock leaned back against the brick.

He tipped his head up to the smoggy stars and took a deep breath, pounding his tightly clasped fist back into the wall.

Why was this so hard for him? He had never had problems maintaining objectivity during a case. Everything else was sentiment and he had proved well above that for so many years. Why did it matter now? Why did it matter so much to him that that women with a sick child was attempting to pull a perfectly nice and honorable man for the night?

A man who would never love her. A man who clearly had someone else he was already in love with.

Who was nonetheless letting that woman put her hands and breasts and shapely hips all over him in the middle of a half empty pub.

A man who played right into her hands, being charming and flirty, like he had with hundreds of women in the past.

Sherlock’s painfully tight fist swung against the wall even harder, the rough brick abrading his skin. He relished the sting, doing it again, harder, and with an extra scrape.

He felt itchy. Like his skin was stretched too tightly over him. He felt restless but he couldn’t go back in there. He couldn’t handle it. He growled at the night.

Sherlock didn’t know how long he stood out there in the brisk fall air, staring up at the sky and swinging his fist back and forth, focusing on the ache in his tightly balled fist instead of the swarm of uncomfortable emotions warring in his chest.

It must’ve been for some time, because he felt his mobile buzz in his pocket only minutes before the door beside him was creaking open.

John poked his head out, seeing his dark angel and making his way to stand in front of him.

“Alright?” he asked carefully.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, sounding more like a hiss than anything else. John sighed, his eyes sad.

“C’mere,” he said softly, reaching up to gently cup the back of his neck, tugging his head down to his shoulder. The detective came willingly, collapsing against his sandalwood jumper.

He smelled like her.

Sherlock growled, teeth gnashing at smelling her on him, on what was his.

Sherlock spun the doctor, pressing him up against the alley wall. Pinning him there with his body, Sherlock smashed their lips together. Teeth pulled and plucked at his mouth before falling down his neck, laving and sucking and pressing his face and hair to any exposed skin.

“Mine,” he growled, biting down fiercely on the junction of neck and jaw.

John leaned his head back, eyes closed under the assault before Sherlock was appeased that his doctor smelled like him again. John kissed his lips gently, helping to settle his riled lover, as he wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s tightly closed one. Sherlock dropped his forehead against John’s, his clamped shut fist vibrating with energy between them.

“Yours,” John agreed softly. “Always and no matter what.”

Sherlock knew better than to put stock in sentimental promises. But there was one set of vows he had put his entire life into.

“Can I have it back, please?” John asked, cupping his lover’s fist in both of his. "I don't feel right without it."

“You will never take it off again.” Bones and joints protested as his hand unfurled. Pushed into his skin, nearly drawing blood it had been squeezed so tightly, was the only sentiment Sherlock ever bowed to.

Taking John’s hand, Sherlock hastily slid the ring back on his finger, twining their hands together, watching the streetlight and starlight gleam off of matching platinum bands.

“Never again,” John insisted, kissing the ring on his finger and then the ring on his husbands.

“Not even for the Work,” Sherlock said earnestly. “I never want to watch that again.”

“You’ll never have to.”

Sherlock leaned against his husband, breath mingling as their hands squeezed together snugly. He felt as though he could now draw his first full breath since they’d walked into that wretched pub with this wretched plan.

“We solved the case,” John said plaintively. Sherlock merely shook his head.

“Home.” Barely above a whisper. “I just want to go home.”

John smiled at him, navy eyes shining in the night light.

“Home, my husband,” he agreed. They left the alley hand in hand, without a look back, rings right where they belonged.

 

 

“You heard back from him, yet?” Donovan asked as they walked into NSY.

“Not yet,” the Inspector replied, checking his phone again. “I think John probably took him home.”

“Never seen him skip out on a case like that,” Donovan commented. “It was weird.”

“Not really,” Lestrade countered. “Ever seen the person you love chatting up someone else?” Greg didn't have to say he had, it was implied. He also didn't say exactly how many times he had. He knew how Sherlock had felt. Luckily for the genius though, his spouse came home to him that night.

“It’s just weird to think about,” Donovan defended with a wrinkled nose. “That he would care about that sort of thing. That he cares at all, I suppose.”

Lestrade just huffed a laugh.

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d been to the wedding.”


	10. Lustful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the wedding so many people asked for, I'm not quite sure I'm ready for that. To apologize for anyone who might fell let down, however, I give you over 2,500 words of smut!!

Sherlock was pressed hard against the wall, flushed, heaving, whining and writhing.

“Good?” John asked from behind him, knees aching a pleasant ache as he kneeled behind his moaning lover, one hand spreading that plush arse and his jaw sore from the forceful tonguing he’d just performed. Sherlock merely whimpered his reply, rocking back against John, begging with his whole body to have that mouth back on his skin. His hands flexed where they were held against the small of his back, wrists bound together by John’s strong fingers. John’s cock pressed insistently against his pants. He’d already unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers to relieve the pressure, and his jumper had been tossed nearly into the fireplace. He still wore his shirt though, unbuttoned down the front and sleeves rolled to his elbows, hanging open off his shoulders.

Sherlock wasn’t wearing a stitch. John grinned against him.

“If I let go of your hands will you be good?” John asked, leaning forward to nip at perfect, pale flesh.

“Yes,” Sherlock whimpered. He would promise not to touch himself for the rest of the month if it meant John would have a free hand to fuck him with. And John was quick to act, releasing his wrists and after giving his own cock a quick squeeze, he quickly pressed the pad of one finger against his partner’s absolutely sodden hole.

Sherlock groaned, the vibration shaking the wall he was pressed so tightly against.

“Please,” he gasped, his voice gone hoarse from the sheer _torture_ John had wrought on him. Nearly thirty minutes of “Don’t touch yourself” and “Take what I give you,” and Sherlock was nearly out of his mind with lust. Pressed against the wall, their bodies wedged in the corner left of the window between two bookshelves, Sherlock awareness did not even extend to the walls and books around him. All he could see or feel was his own flushed skin and John’s heated touch against him.

John loved him like this, he thought as he slowly slid a finger though that tight channel. His genius was finally out of his head, not thinking, not deducing, just _wanting_ with every fiber of his being. And begging for it.

Sherlock keened, head falling against his shoulder, hiding his face in his own clammy skin as he struggled to manage the deeper sensation as John went directly for his prostate, sliding his finger around it in a tantalizing circle before pressing down. Hard.

The detective’s vision whited out and a single touch to his cock would have him coming for hours. God, he was close. _So close, close, close, fuck, John, so bloody close…_

He only realized he was speaking out loud, mumbling really, chanting almost, when John shushed him, lips against the tingling skin of his arse.

“Hush, dear, its fine, I’ve got you,” John said sucking a dark mark over one brilliant back dimple and twisting the finger inside him. Sherlock’s hips jerked, swollen cock nearly hitting the wall.

“John, please,” Sherlock begged, peeling himself away from the wall, pushing himself with all his considerably weaken strength against his selfish lover, his head hanging off his neck as his body trembled. John pushed another finger in.

The detective had just let out a floor shaking moan and John had just taken a full mouthful of his arse when the door swung open with enough force to slam against the wall with a resonating bang.

“Shit!” John cursed, withdrawing his hand and jerking to his feet, putting his mostly clothes body between his compromised lover and the two wide eyed officers at the door.

Lestrade and Donovan were not recovering quickly, still standing stock still, frozen in the doorway, the only thing moving in them was the blood rushing to their faces, Lestrade’s arm in the air, waving a case file in greeting.

“What the fuck?” John demanded, jerking the curtain off the window, the rod clattering to the ground, the hollow sound jarring the officers out of their stupor. John briskly wrapped the curtain around his shaky partner, glaring at the coppers as they looked to the ground, their mouths finally shutting closed with near audible snaps.

“Oh, fuck, sorry! Sorry,” Lestrade began, face absolutely flaming with color.

“Seriously?” John shouted, keeping his body between them and Sherlock as the detective attempted to pull himself together, his scattered wits and overheated skin keeping him from catching his breath. “What the fuck do you want?” John demanded.

“Shit, oh God, so sorry,” Greg repeated, covering his face with the case file in his hand.

“No, Greg, seriously, what the fuck do you want?” John growled. “And why the fuck are you still standing in my doorway?”

“We need him,” Greg said, averting eye contact but gesturing to the detective still leaning heavily against the wall, sweaty curls hanging limply on his forehead.

“He’s a little busy, thanks,” John bit out, putting his hands on his hips, stance widening. Donovan nearly choked on her own spit.

His white shirt hanging off his shoulders emphasized his tanner skin, defined chest and solid core. Black ink leaked out over his ribs and sweat beaded on his collarbones. Donovan couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“John, we’ve got a whole bus full of kids being held hostage. He’s threatening to kill a kid every hour that his demands aren’t met. We just need him to tell us what he can get from the correspondence we’ve got,” Greg finally met John’s eyes, begging, appealing to the soldier’s heroic sense.

John sighed angrily, running a hand back through his short hair. Sherlock was silent behind him, leaning on his forearms against the wall, breath and heartrate just beginning to slow. John turned his head, locking eyes with his partner.

 _‘Okay?’_ his eyes asked.

 _‘I need you,’_ was the answering whimper.

 _‘After?’_ John frowned sympathetically.

 _‘Don’t know if I can,’_ Sherlock’s eyes were wide and just slightly unfocused, still dazed with the onslaught of arousal he’d just endured. And with no relief.

 _‘Try?’_ John asked with a tilt of his head and a sympathetic wince. _‘Kids,’_ his eyes said, though he didn’t mean them to. Sherlock saw it though, deduced it, so he supposed he could manage a little bit of brilliance.

He gave John a short nod and straightened up off the wall.

“Give us a second,” John directed to the officers, waiting patiently, albeit it very uncomfortably, in the doorway while the detective pulled his curtain closer around him and John blatantly adjusted his flagging erection in his pants.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Greg said, his voice tight with stress.

John gave him a terrifyingly hard look, the kind that had new recruits quaking in their boots. “You have enough time to wait in the hallway for him to get his kit on, or you can leave and do your own damn job.”

Greg’s hands went up and he backed out the door slowly. Donovan followed after her gaze finally worked her way up from the red pants peaking from John’s undone flies to his face, finding a cold glare and deliciously tousled blond hair.

“Right, sorry,” she said blushing. “We’ll be waiting out here.” John stalked across the room and slammed the door in their faces.

“Christ,” the inspector said, dragging a hand down his face. Donovan nodded dumbly, eyes glued to the door. “Could’ve gone my whole life without seeing that,” Greg mumbled, rubbing his temples. Sally shook her head at that, the image of John’s compact body, lined in ink, sweat and muscle.

“Fuck,” she said, shaking her head harder. Lestrade gave her a weird look. She ignored it, still seeing the mental image of Sherlock bloody Holmes, panting and begging, bare arsed naked against the wall.

After a couple minutes the door was pulled open again by a slightly less agitated John and a more clothed Sherlock. Nonetheless, Lestrade was having trouble blocking the image of his friend’s face buried in his boyfriend’s brother’s arse out of his mind. Neither could he clear his ears of that tortured-sounding moan. Greg shuddered. He’d need to bleach his brain after this.

Sherlock was sat in his typical chair, wrapped up in pajama bottoms and his dressing gown, legs pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped tightly around them. His face and neck were still delicately flushed and his pupils were wider than Greg had ever seen them sober. After letting them in, John marched back to his flatmate, standing behind his chair, one hand on his shoulder, protectively guarding his mate. _‘How primal,’_ Greg thought with an eyeroll. He had a case to solve, he didn’t need John pissing all over it in a ridiculous dominance display.

Everyone knew Sherlock was wrapped around John’s finger.

Quite literally, as Greg had just very graphically seen.

He shuddered again.

“Alright,” Greg said, throwing himself back into the case, if for no other reason than to escape the emotional trauma he’d just undergone. “This is the first note we got.”

Greg and Donovan spent a few quick minutes laying the evidence out for him, explaining the case and handing over whatever they had. Or, at least, Greg explained. Donovan was caught between staring at John and looking anywhere except for him.

Sherlock noticed.

“Sergeant, if you even think about wanking over John, I will know,” he said, his typically cool manner lacking as he had to continually readjust his legs. It seemed as though not even the knowledge that fourteen kids were held captive and scared somewhere was enough to tamp down on his arousal.

To be fair, it wasn’t working overly well for Sally either.

Sherlock began his deduction, pointing out this and that from the letters, taking each out of the plastic evidence bag to sniff at it. His voice was thick and his deductions came slower than usual.

His voice was rough when he spoke. His eyes unfocused at times, when John stroked a single finger up his neck or pulled a sweaty curl behind his ear. Whenever John would add something to the conversation, Sherlock would tip his head completely back and gaze at his (would be) lover (had they not been interrupted).

Sherlock had trailed off in the middle of a sentence, his brain sucking him back to the feeling of John’s fingers twisting inside of him, how his cock still lay half hard between his stomach and his thigh and if he pulled his leg just a little closer it squeezed him pleasantly and he could nearly pretend it was John’s hand.

“Sherlock?” Greg prompted. Sherlock came back to himself with a jolt, eyes snapping back to the folder in his hand, even as his other hand disappeared behind the wall of his knees to press discretely at his crotch.

Donovan had successfully managed to tear her eyes away from the soldier standing guard and made a valiant effort to focus on the case. It was a really rather serious one. Kids in danger put everyone on edge.

And yet what truly unnerved her the most was the little groan Sherlock let out when John put his hand on the nape of his neck. Or the way he kept licking his lips and shifting in his seat. She’d never seen him as a sexual being before. Didn’t think he was capable of it. It seemed too human, too regular. Always so cold and calculating, she assumed anything like passion for him was reserved solely for corpses, not warm-blooded beings. But she’d seen the evidence for herself. Seen desperate desire, aching arousal and breathless beauty. She was still seeing it. The flush still staining his pallor. The catch in his voice when he spoke, like his throat was dry from gasping. From moaning. From shouting John’s name…

“Donovan!” John barked. The three others in the room started, two in confusion, one with guilt. “For the love of God,” John said exasperatedly, one hand coming down over his friend’s shoulder to splay over his sternum. “Stop looking at him like that.”

Donovan blushed and sputtered some halfhearted denial.

Sherlock made a noise half between a whimper and a growl that he would never admit to later, grabbing John’s wrist tightly, head lolling back to give him a look of near desperation. John’s hand on his bare chest felt like a jolt of hot electricity, reminding his blood just how hotly it could burn. His hips twitched in the seat and his arse clenched. John could feel the very edge of one pert nipple just under his dressing gown. He circled it.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, eyes sliding closed, head tipped up, neck bared, completely oblivious to the other two people in the room.

John leaned in, brushing his lips over his lover’s long neck.

“Solve the case, love,” he whispered. “Then we can see about a reward.”

Sherlock’s eyes shot open. His feet fell to the floor, no longer worried about shielding his mostly erect cock. He was on the case, with a furious fervor double that of his usual drive. Deductions flew rapid fire out of his mouth, Lestrade nearly dropping his pen as he hurried to write it all down.

The letter’s origin, the kidnapper’s heritage and family situation, what his handwriting told them about his schooling and career, the information was like a fountain stream and the inspector was scrambling to keep up.

“You will likely find them all, unharmed, in a warehouse by the Thames, likely one with a deep basement, natural river rock floors. Abandoned now, but industrial when it was in use. Propylene glycol along this edge of the paper, look for closed appliance factories; refrigerators, freezers, the like.” Greg’s pen was scratching along rapidly, skipping every other letter to just manage the jist. “This narrows down to a seven block radius between forty-fifth and Umberland. Two warehouses there, one is still in use, one has been abandoned for the better part of a year.”

Sherlock took a long, shuddering breath. “Go, now, get the kids.” The officers offered rushed thank you’s, Donovan very nearly running from the flat, all too eager to call in what they knew.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Greg said, earnestly, checking his watch. Not twenty minutes had gone by. “That madman won’t even get the chance to make good on his threat.”

“Yes, quite, good, leave,” Sherlock said, not even giving him the decency of shooing him out, already out of his chair and rounding on the doctor.

Greg wasn’t even to the door before the two were melded together, the wet and whimpering sounds of a damn good snog chasing him out of the flat. Making it to the door, ears flaming red, Greg turned back to grab the doorknob, just in time to see John bend an already half-naked and all too willing and boneless Sherlock over his own armchair.

“For the love of God,” he grumbled, eyes on the floor as he drew the door tightly shut behind him. He bounded down the stair to a litany of “Brilliant” and “Please.”

He burst out the 221 door, a second too late to miss the throat-damaging groan that rolled down the stairs. He launched himself through the door and slumped gratefully into his car. Donovan sat in the passenger seat, having called in to the station and was now sitting with her head against her knees.

Greg knew how she felt.

“I never,” he began. “Ever want to see, hear, or even know about anything like that. Ever. Ever. Again.”

They drove away in stricken silence, Greg wondering whether or not he’d tell his sometimes-jealous boyfriend about this, and Sally sick to her stomach at the thought that of all people in the world, Sherlock Holmes might have a more fulfilling sex life than her.


	11. Actually in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here we add a tag for Mystrade. I'm very sorry if that isn't your cup of tea, there is still a bit of cute, adorable John and Sherlock being in love, but this is a look into how seeing their lovely and loving relationship might effect how other people see their own relationships.

It was a gorgeous day. The kind you didn't often get to see in London spring time. The sun was actually out for once, there was a lovely breeze and Greg had his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, his jacket forgotten at the office. Strolling through the park, pleasantly populated with playful children and peeping birds, Greg couldn’t think of a more enjoyable way to spend his lunch break. He looked sideways at his walking companion, a dazzling smile on his face, and was greeted by a tight lipped but present one in return.

It wasn’t often Mycroft permitted this sort of thing. Romantic walks through the park at lunch time weren’t really the taller man’s style. Not that this would look romantic from an outsider’s point of view. Two men, walking at least two feet apart at all times, hardly talking, barely glancing at each other. They hardly even looked like business associates.

But Greg knew better. And that was enough.

“How was work this morning?” he asked conversationally, not expecting all that much back.

“Well enough,” Mycroft answered. “And yours?”

“Alright, new case came across my desk this morning.” Greg stepped around the remnants of a stubborn puddle, refusing to dry up like the rest of the park had. “Seems simple enough, we should have it tied up by tomorrow.”

“How fortunate for the victims.”

“Not so much for the baddies,” Greg grinned boyishly and Mycroft worked to keep his face impassive as a jogger passed them by, eyeing the older man’s endearing expression.

“Quite.”

They walked in silence for a while longer, companionable but for the distance between them Greg ached to breach. Just to twist one finger in with one of his friend’s. Or simply to let their shoulders brush as they walked, comfortable in each other’s space outside of the four walls of the bedroom.

But Greg shook off the longing, knowing that what they had was enough.

Had to be enough.

“Oh, well hey!” Greg exclaimed in surprise as the reached a slight bridge. “Look at that, our two favorite madmen, out and about.” Leaning against the ailing of the narrow bridge, Greg pointed across the shallow creek to the distinct forms of Sherlock and John on the opposite bank.

John was lounging in the dry grass, leaning back on his elbows, feet crossed at the ankles, chuckling as he watched his barmy partner chasing something airborne with a jar. Sherlock stumbled over a tuft of plant life, nearly sending him sprawling and John only laughed harder, Greg along with him. A couple more jerking steps, however, and Sherlock clapped the lid on the jar, holding his victim over his head in victory before pulling it down to eye level and examining whatever unlucky specimen had caught his eye.

John said something Greg couldn’t hear, but he saw Sherlock reaction, a playful scowl tossed over his shoulder at his relaxing compatriot before pressing his nose back up against the glass container. John pushed up onto his hands and made another quip, this time pulling a startled laugh from the detective, a genuine smile on his face that not many people in this world were privileged enough to see.  

Twisting the lid more securely, Sherlock turned towards his doctor, cocking his head and putting his one empty hand on his hip. John said something else, a cheeky grin on his face and Greg could only imagine what adorably horrifying banter the two had going between them. It seemed as though those two never ran out of quips or inside jokes or playful jabs at each other. Greg glanced a look at Mycroft, watching the exchange with dispassionate, bluegrey eyes.

“I wonder what they're saying,” Greg started, met only by a noncommittal hum and bored fidgeting. A couple seconds of silence passed between them as Sherlock made a show of thrusting his jar into John’s face, turning it slowly this way and that so he might better appreciate the sample inside.

“What do you think he’s got in there?” Greg tried again.

“A bee, I’m sure.”

“Really?” The great Sherlock Holmes, falling all over himself to catch a bee? I’d have thought it some exotic flying spider, capable of shooting venom thirty feet and trained as an assassin.” Mycroft was unamused. “Or something like that, you know?” A hum was all he got as the ginger man checked his mobile and Greg leaned heavily against the railing.

Across the creek Sherlock stalked into John’s space, looming down over the smaller man. John was undaunted however, and with a quick grab he had the detective’s wrist in his hand, dragging him down to the ground with him. Sherlock wrapped his arm around the jar like its contents was the more important thing in the world and John wrapped an arm around the genius’ skull with identical devotion, catching him in his descent and pushing up off his hip to spin them, carefully delivering Sherlock to the ground below.

Greg watched as John sat up onto his knees, straddling one long thigh and extracting the jar from the scientist’s grip. Sherlock said something, by the turn of his head and flick of his wrist, Greg assumed it was lofty and dismissive. For having just been dragged to the ground, the man looked as though this was exactly where he’d planned on ending up. Perhaps even he had, Greg couldn’t tell as he hadn’t heard the conversation, but it was with a smile that he considered this is exactly the outcome Sherlock had predicted. The inspector wouldn't be the slightest bit surprised if Sherlock had had this exact scenario planned out from the second John had wrangled that laugh out of him. He smiled up at his soldier with a satisfied smirk, looking every bit the posh consulting detective, leaves in his hair be damned.  

His cool, calm and in-control demeanor vanished rather rapidly, however, when John set surgeon finger’s to work against the detective’s sides. Greg grin grew larger still as shrieking peals of laughter rose from the cold genius as his best friend tickled him mercilessly. Long limbs flapped as he struggled to get away, snarled admonishments interjecting joyful giggles as he thrashed on the warm, green grass.

One flailing arm found its target as it hooked around the doctor’s neck, pulling him down for a sloppy kiss. Things quieted down then, as tickles turned to strokes and John visibly sank into the kiss. The two men seemed completely oblivious to anything and everything around them, lost in their world as lovers, even when out in the real world, shared with others. 

Thankfully for the families and strangers dotting the park, the pair kept it chaste as John came to lie by his side, giving up his game of tickles and lightly gripping the genius’ bicep where he wrapped around his neck.

Greg smile flagged as his heart slowly sunk. Watching Sherlock bloody Holmes kissing in a fucking meadow with a forgotten experiment left by the wayside, Greg was that much more aware of the gaping distance between himself and the man he loved.

The inspector watched in sorrowful silence as Sherlock pulled his head back, studying his partner’s face in the sunlight with a blinding smile on his face, saying something on a bubbling laugh that made John glow before kissing him again, arm flexing as he drew him closer. Greg wondered when the last time was that anyone had kissed him like that. Or looked at him like that. With so much unabashed love and passion, unafraid of the world around them, merely lost in the world they created between them. 

He wondered if anyone ever had.

Things with Mycroft were so perfect when they were together. So long as they were _alone_ together. Their chemistry was sparkling in late dusk light, alone in a bedroom and gasping for breath. Morning times were a slow extinguishing of whatever warmth Greg had felt the night before, leaving him more than a little bereft when Mycroft looked at him with that stony mask and tensely tolerated a kiss on the cheek.

Crawling out of bed was like swallowing a knife, as the man who’d held him in his sleep was carefully replaced by a suit and tie and cold indifference. It was all Greg could do to clear his throat and tell himself that it was enough.

Stolen moments with the real Mycroft in the dark of night, in the privacy of his apartment or his lover’s townhouse, they were enough for Greg. Greg could hold that in his mind’s eye and remember that that is who lived under that impenetrable casing Mycroft wore out into the world.

It was enough, right?

Across the shallow stream Sherlock trailed his fingers across the line of his partner’s shoulders and down his arm. He rolled onto his back, gazing into John’s eyes, saying something that made the soldier’s smile grow wider still as he wrapped both of his hands around one of John and held the matching platinum bands directly over his heart.

Outside of the throes of sex, Mycroft had never held his hand. Not once. Not in the shadows of the back of a cab or towncar. Not over the table during morning tea. He’d never held his hand.

He had never looked at him like he loved him, never told him he cared. He’d walk with him through the park and take him out to dinner, but would never hint at being anything more than his friend until the front door closed behind them.

There were no declarations, no introductions, no kisses before work. Nothing that told Greg he was loved as much as he dearly loved.

He’d never held his hand.

Watching Sherlock, the most difficult man in the world, being caressed and adored by a man who truly loved him wasn’t what made Greg’s heart turn to stone in his stomach and tighten his throat like a vice. It wasn't seeing him being loved that made Greg ache for a man who only seemed to exist when his cock was out. It was seeing Sherlock, the most difficult fucking man in the world, caressing and adoring the man _he_ loved. In the middle of a park on a fucking Tuesday. Oblivious to anything but that one man. it was seeing Sherlock bloody fucking Holmes, the most conceited and obnoxious man alive, letting go and being himself and being in love. 

Cold, aloof, disdainful Sherlock fucking Holmes, giggling and rolling around in the grass because he was in love.

Greg dropped his head into his hands, wondering how on earth he had _once again_ found himself head over heels in love with someone who might never love him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there will be a companion chapter after this one. I know he's not a Yarder, but we'll be looking into Mycroft's thought on John and Sherlock next. And Greg, of course. Because Mystrade is a lovely ship, and these prompts still fit this fic. So I'm going with it! Hope you Johnlockers still enjoy. If you did, I'd love to hear about it :)
> 
> And, as always, I am still taking suggestions if anyone has something they'd want to read.


	12. Unafraid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all my fellow Americans, Happy Independence Day!!! This is absolutely one of my favorite holidays! Between the beach and the park, I fit in a couple hours to finish up this chapter! Pretty long one for you today, hope you enjoy it.

Mycroft sat in his office, a pen held lightly in his fingers as he stared at absolutely nothing. He was supposed to be reviewing this contract with the Ethiopians, but his thoughts were not focused. His brain, his most prized possession, was rebelling. He was unable to concentrate. When he trained his eyes on the paper in front of him, he didn't see a single word. Instead, he saw that bloody bridge in that bloody park and the look in Gregory’s eyes when he told him that they weren’t going to work out after all.

He’d looked heartbroken. Like the politician had someone taken his heart from his chest and blended it up before pouring it back down his throat.

He’d looked like he finally realized he could never have what he wanted with the man he wanted it from.

He’d looked a lot like what Mycroft felt.

The genius closed his eyes tightly, dropping the pen to the desk but remaining otherwise motionless as he forced a hold onto his strangling emotions.

He couldn’t afford to feel like this. _This_ was exactly what he had taken so many precautions to avoid. This horrible feeling of having lost Gregory. This terrible mourning, this loss of love, this torture at having his dearest love taken away from him.

But Gregory hadn’t been taken away. He hadn’t been taken by an enemy. He hadn’t been blackmailed by a rival and he hadn’t been killed by an assassin.

He’d just left.

And that shouldn’t have been worse but it _was_. It was worse because the inspector had chosen to leave. He’d chosen to stop trying, to stop loving. He’d chosen to give up on him.

And while he was alive and healthy and not at all endangered by any enemy of the state or of his politician himself, it tore Mycroft apart that Gregory had given up.

Not that he could be blamed. The genius knew exactly why Gregory had looked at him like that on that horribly fateful day. Mycroft knew exactly how he’d broken his lover’s heart.

While it was nowhere neglect, the outcome had been essentially the same. Gregory had needed more. He’d needed someone to introduce to his mother, or to take to the Yard Christmas party or even simply to kiss him on the cheek when they met for dinner. But Mycroft couldn’t give him any of that. Not without putting a target on his back. And that was something Mycroft could not abide.

It was for the force of his love that he had kept it so consistently hidden. Even from the one man who needed to see it.

It was difficult to keep his devotion out of his every day actions. Mycroft didn't think he’d have been able to keep up the charade for so long, had it not been for the blissful hours of reprieve he found within the circle of his lover’s arms. When they were intimate Mycroft could finally be true to the feelings he had in his traitorous heart. He could tangle his fingers in silver hair and hold their mouths together even when kissing was impossible and they were simply gasping into each other’s mouths, foreheads pressed tightly together and Gregory worked between his legs. He could hold his partner against his chest and feel the rise and fall of his breath as he slept, safe in the fleeting knowledge that whatever _it_ was that they had between them, Mycroft felt it too.

Having to destroy that idea morning after morning, replacing it with the harsh reality that Mycroft Holmes had to maintain, was worse for him than it had been for the older man. Mycroft was sure of it. There was no way anything else could hurt worse than seeing the disappointment in the eyes of the man he loved as he slipped from his arms in the kitchen, refusing any intimacy more than a simple good morning kiss. There was nothing that could’ve wrenched a heart more than having to pull your hand away when fingers brushed as they walked down the street together and pretending to be ignorant to the fissure of hurt that caused every time it happened.

And yet it had been Gregory who had hurt enough to have given up.

Mycroft had known it was a possibility. His Gregory had be hurt and abused before, his emotions and devotions yanked about and tossed away like garbage. Part of Mycroft had hoped that Gregory would never grow to love him in return, knowing it would only be worse for him then. But the selfish part of him, the _sentimental_ part of him had allowed him to continue seeing the policeman.

And it was that part that was currently aching inside of him, necrotic and festering, stealing him from his duties and responsibilities.

Responsibilities like keeping an eye on his erratic brother, Mycroft reminded himself as he opened his eyes and cued up the CCTV. The genius studiously ignored the accusatory voice in the back of his head that told him it was not his brotherly duty that had him bouncing through London’s lenses but the knowledge that Sherlock was on a case and he might perhaps catch a glimpse of his lost lover.

He found them just as Sherlock was swanning off, giving his final dramatic twirl around the crime scene, his coat billowing out behind him like a shadow sewn to his shoulders. Mycroft had to decide whether or not to stick to his farce and follow his brother like he told himself he was here to do, or continue watching the slightly slumped figure of his former partner take notes and give directions.

Mycroft indulged for a moment, eyes following the strong capable hands he knew so intimately as they balanced a notepad, coffee, a donut and car keys. But when Gregory dropped three out of four and merely hung his head, looking at the mess of his shoes like it was the perfect metaphor for his life, Mycroft decided this was more torturous than helpful and quickly relocated his brother.

And immediately wished he hadn’t.

He swiveled to the right camera just in time to see a grinning Sherlock and a breathless John ducking into an alley. Their hands were clasped and the second the taller man’s back hit the wall their lips were caught up in a joyful snog. Sherlock looped his arms around the doctor’s shoulders, tilting his head to deepen the connection but remaining lazy in his affections, kissing as if they had all the time in the world.

Mycroft watched as exactly six people passed the mouth of the alleyway in which Sherlock and his blogger were ensconced. Four looked, two walked on completely oblivious. Of the four who looked, one made perfect eye contact with the detective, his head lolled back as his partner descended on his neck. Mycroft waited for Sherlock’s reaction, holding his breath. He waited for John to be shoved away, for a threat to be issued, for even a snarl.

Sherlock didn't do any of that.

Holding the startled man’s gaze, Sherlock wrapped his arms more securely around his soldier and pressed a smiling kiss to his hair. The gesture spoke loudly; I love this man, I don’t care if you see.

Immediately Mycroft picked up the phone.

He saw the second Sherlock went from smiling and enjoying to scowling and dreading. His gaze quickly found his brother’s chosen looking glass and put on his most petulant pout as he plucked his phone from his pocket and answered.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the politician blustered.

“Well I had been snogging,” Sherlock replied flatly, fingers carding through John’s hair even as he stepped back to arm’s length for the phone call.

“You have no idea who that man was. And you blatantly announced yourself to him and showed him your face,” Mycroft scolded. “You live a dangerous life, brother mine. You have enemies everywhere. Opening yourself to this kind of attack is not only foolish but—”

Mycroft was cut off by a snort-cum-growl.

“Don’t you dare project your fears onto my relationship, _brother_ ,” Sherlock spat like a curse. “The detective inspector was just as endangered using his personal key to your house at night as he was at dinner with you last week. The only single difference at all was that in only one of those instances you and Lestrade were happy.”

“Don’t presume to tell me about _my_ relationship,” Mycroft responded coolly, dutiful ignoring the clenching in his heart.

“No, I think I will, actually,” his brother continued with all his typical arrogance. “Because there is still something you haven’t seemed to figure out.” Sherlock looked away from the camera and back at John. Whatever silent communicate that went on between the two, Mycroft could not discern from his vantage point but for the basics: A moment of eye contact and John stepped back in close, hands settling on the detective’s hips, and a closed mouthed kiss was placed delicately in the hollow of his throat, Sherlock re-encircled his partner’s neck with his free arm and huffed quietly into his hair.

“They're already in danger, Mycroft,” his brother said, his voice lacking all typical bite and disdain. Instead he sounded honest. And sad. “Pushing them away wouldn’t make them love us less. And the little you gave Lestrade was enough to put a target on him anyway. Holding him at arm’s length only hurt him, just as much as any sniper could’ve.” Sherlock’s arm flexed where it wrapped around the smaller man, as if the two could get any closer.

“You were a fool to let him go.”

“I hardly let him. He chose to leave.”

“Because you pushed him away.”

“Sentiment is a—”

“I don’t want to hear it, brother,” Sherlock snapped. “I don’t know how much work you’ve gotten done today, but I can guarantee it’s not as much as you managed in the same time when you knew you had someone to go home to. It’s not weakness.” Sherlock looked up and the two brothers locked eyes through the lens and screen. He meant what he was saying. Through all Sherlock had lived, and with all he had been taught, in this he seemed to have complete and utter faith.

Faith in his love for a mere mortal. Faith in the fact that together the sum was greater than that of its parts. That with John at his side, he was better than before, better at his job and better with himself.

Sherlock was demonstrating a faith and a belief he had been raised to reject.

Because he had fallen in love.

And he had, thus far, kept that love because he did not fear it.

“Fix this, Mycroft,” came a tinny voice through the phone the older brother had forgotten he was holding. “As disgusting as your interloping is,” Sherlock stopped to clear his throat, pausing for a moment before a nudge from his partner urged him to continue, “the both of you are better for it. And I shall never repeat that again, good day.”

The connection was severed, the phone stowed away and Sherlock’s face was turned from the camera and immediately mashed against that of his partner.

Mycroft sat back in his chair and turned off his computer screen.

He had a lot to fix.

 

 

“Gregory,” Mycroft said with a tight smile as the inspector sat heavily down into the seat before him. The coffee shop wasn’t the ginger’s typical haunt, but Gregory had shot down anything else. Even now, as he sank into an overly plush armchair, he looked like he regretted his decision.

“Thank you for meeting me,” Mycroft offered anyway. Lestrade looked horrible. Mycroft tried to smile at him again. It hurt.

“Why are we doing this?” Gregory asked quietly, seeing to be looking anywhere but Mycroft.

He had been the one to call it quits. But he didn't need Mycroft bringing him here to rub it in his face, or whatever this was. Because while Greg felt and looked like shit, the damn politician looked just as beautiful as he ever did. And it _hurt_.

“Gregory, please.” The grey head whipped up, shocked to hear the taller man begging for the first time in his life, outside of the bedroom. And the look in his eyes was sincere and entreating and Greg couldn’t do anything but listen.

“Gregory, I have been remiss in communication with you over the course of our relationship,” Mycroft began, eyes on his hands where he twirled his umbrella between his knees. “I am well aware that you have felt undervalued and,” Mycroft swallowed with difficulty. “And unloved.”

“Mycroft, please,” Greg pleaded, face flaming as he took his turn to beg. He didn't need his broken heart shattered further. He didn't need to be made to feel even more foolish

“No, Gregory, it is not my desire to make you feel this way. Then, yes, but not now. And not in the future.” The politician leaned forward in his chair, willing his former partner to believe what he was saying.

“So, you’re saying you did it on purpose?” Greg asked, looking even more haggard for hearing it. “Before? You pushed me away on purpose?”

“It was my intention to keep you safe,” Mycroft defended without heat. His whole composition was one of pleading. Greg had never seen him like this before. It was worth listening to. “While I have long been out of the field, my life is not one void of danger. I have enemies, enemies who would jump at the chance to discover my weak point. A weak point which would be you.”

Greg looked steadily into the taller man’s eyes, willing himself to be reasonable. Getting over emotional with Mycroft Holmes would not help his case at all.

“So all those times I felt like you were ignoring me or annoyed with me, you were doing it on purpose?”

“Yes,” came the hesitant reply.

“When we walked in the park and you barely talked to me? On purpose?”

“Yes.”

“When you texted through dinner whenever we ate out?”

“Yes.”

Greg was quiet for a moment. Processing.

“But when it was just us? At yours or at mine. That was all real?”

“Yes,” he assured, this time much stronger, with reverence.

Greg looked away, ignoring the burn behind his eyes.

“All of it?” If he sounded choked, he wouldn’t admit it. “The mornings? When you wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t kiss me goodbye, wouldn’t acknowledge what we were? Was that on purpose, Myc? Was all of that real?”

The younger man looked beseechingly at the inspector, mouth unattractively agape as he felt the weight of his dearest love’s pain. Greg swallowed heavily and Mycroft’s resolve strengthen. His face firmed with determination.

“Yes, that was all on purpose, Gregory. I needed the preparation, otherwise I never could’ve stepped out that front door and pretended not to be in love with you.” Mycroft took a fortifying breath before spilling fluidly out of his chair, kneeling on one knee before the man he hoped to win back. Greg started at the gesture and immediately looked around. People were watching. Mycroft didn't care.

“And I am,” he continued, looking only into frightened but possibly hopeful brown eyes. “In love with you. I tried not to be, for your sake, but I couldn’t stop it. I just wanted you so completely. Knowing that I couldn’t keep you, I wanted you anyway. I still want you. It’s dangerous and selfish and if I was a better man I’d let you go, so you would be safe. But I'm not, and I'm selfish enough to know that you make me better, even if it puts you in danger. And while I want nothing more than for you to be safe, I cannot imagine returning to life without you. I find that I sincerely do not want to. I think that perhaps if you were to trust me and I were to trust you, we might be able to try again. I would promise to do everything I could to be the man you deserve. I would treat you right and do everything I could to keep you safe. Short of letting you go. Because we’ve tried that and I'm finding that I hate it and want nothing more than to have you back.”

He was stopped before he could continue with his embarrassing monologue by Gregory’s lips on his, pressing insistently as if he could taste the words he’d just spoken.

“Shut up, Myc,” he whispered against him, big hands bracketing his face. “Just shut up.”

“I love you,” the politician confessed again.

“I love you, too,” Greg huffed, kissing his idiot boyfriend’s beautiful mouth.

The people watching might’ve cheered, they might’ve booed, they might’ve filmed it, Mycroft had no idea. His awareness did not expand past the wet heat of his partner’s tongue and the strong grip of his hands. He sighed into his mouth, relief swamping through him as he surrendered to the fact that he no longer had to be alone.

 

 

 

“That’s disgusting,” Sherlock said, his nose wrinkled in distress.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” John said, tipping his head to the side as he watched the two men kiss. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“I didn't want to _see_ it.”

“Then why have we been watching them for five minutes?”

“Well we had to know if Lestrade would take him back.”

“And you couldn’t have waited for one of them to tell us?”

“But then we wouldn’t have been able to record it.”

“Oh dear God. Mycroft’s going to kill you for that.”

“Well, he could try.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, guys, I am very nearly out of ideas! I would love to get some cute suggestions!


	13. Submissive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going full AU for this one, my friends. A little one-chapter drabble into D/s-verse. Always been a big fan of this verse, though there is no porn in this chapter. For those of you who do not like Dominant/submissive societies, don't worry, it's likely just this one chapter. For those of you who do, well, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Also, I'm sure at this point I'm sure it goes without saying, but I am very American and this story has not been Britpicked. As such, I did as much research as I could on British emergency response teams, seeing as SWAT teams are not universal. Feel free to make corrections for me, I'd honestly appreciate it. Half the time I don't even know what I'm talking about, yahoo!Answers can only do so much.

Sherlock Holmes was one obnoxious Dominant. Even in a completely neutral environment he would purposely put everyone on edge. But one of the reasons Greg always assumed people really didn't like him was because he would never actually Dom anyone. It pissed people off because he went around, acting like he didn't even need the Dominance he had to get his way. He just did. He didn't need to Dom the truth out of a suspect, he didn't need to Dom his way onto a crime scene and he didn't need to Dom himself out of trouble. He just did it, without a trace of anything extra. And people hated him for it. Especially unhappy subs (read: Anderson).

Some rather aggressive rumor mills (read: Anderson) even started insinuating that Sherlock was, in fact, a switch. Not because he ever demonstrated even an ounce of submissive tendency, but because only a switch would be able to stand to withhold from Domming whenever he or she got riled. And there were sometimes on cases where Greg would swear, any second, that Sherlock would start Domming the whole goddamn room.

But it never happened. Greg always chocked it up to Sherlock’s obsession with intellectual pursuits; base persuasions like Dom versus sub would have no role in Sherlock Holmes’ massive mind.

Up until the Yard met John Watson, that is.

Quiet and cuddly, unassuming even; a seemingly average submissive, were it not for the stubborn streak and army training he carried with him. Personally, Greg preferred other Doms, a fact that Sherlock always sneered at, especially considering his Dom of choice was his brother. But Lestrade figured that the wayward consultant would benefit from having a pliant little sub at home. Now that they all saw it, John was the obvious choice for a Dom like Sherlock Holmes. Enough of a dichotomy to keep the genius interested but quietly submissive enough for the Dom to enjoy.

Sherlock mellowed out. He was still as demonic and erratic as always, do not be fooled. But, on occasion he could be reasoned with. He could be persuaded to politeness. And, if he didn't see you watching, he even looked happy every now and then.

John must’ve been one hell of a solicitous sub.

 

 

 

 

“What the fuck do you mean, he ran off with the killer?” John growled into the phone, rushing out of the surgery.

“We had a lead, he bulldozed ahead, by the time we got their he and the suspect were running off,” Lestrade explained, driving haphazardly through the rain, in hot pursuit of the brilliant idiot he was tasked with looking after.

“Where is he now?” John asked, jumping into the street to hail a cab.

“We’re following them in the car, we think they’re headed to the warehouse Sherlock ID-ed as their base of operations.”

“Who is we?” John asked, quickly giving the cabbie directions and promising him plenty extra to get them there yesterday.

“Me and about half the bloody force. Our suspect had a gun, Sherlock assures us this is the front for a major weapons trading gang, we called in SCO19 and have SFO units en route.”

“He had a gun?” John asked, his question chillingly cold.

“Yeah,” Lestrade answered warily. “I don’t suppose you have yours? The one I'm not supposed to know about but that Mycroft helps you get ammo for?”

“No, fuck, I don’t, I just came from work,” John answered exasperatedly. “I’ll be there soon.”

“If you beat us there, John, don’t you dare go in without backup,” the inspector warned, but John had already hung up.

“ **Drive faster** ,” John growled. The cabbie had no choice but to obey.

John and Lestrade ended up arriving at the same time, and the inspector had not been joking. No less than five panda cars pulled up, lights flashing, as well as two SFO units, armed men pouring out and surrounding the building.

John began stalking to the door, and Greg watched him, knowing he would have to put down some serious Dominance to get him to stay behind, and even then he didn't know if that could hold the sub back. He was actually surprised John was handling this as well as he was. It was no question that John was a strong man, but as a submissive, Greg had expected a little more distress at having his Dom endangered. But he’d been to war, Greg supposed he was prepared for this sort of thing. Lord knows Sherlock put him through it often enough.

Never quite like this though. Working with the SCO19 was not something Sherlock had warranted before, but with this gang, they weren’t pulling any punches.

And as John rushed headlong into battle, all Lestrade could to was rally the troops and follow him up.

The door to the warehouse was swiftly booted in and Lestrade was barking orders to get the men organized and rush in after him.

The DI sent several officers, armed and otherwise, to sweep the rest of the building, looking for the several gang members they expected to find, as well as the weapons stash they were currently trying to move. He kept no less than ten officers with him in the main cavern of the warehouse to back up John.

All eyes were on train on the middle of the huge room, on a circle of light from a skylight in the ceiling, illuminating the perp. Who had an arm around Sherlock’s neck and a gun to his head.

“Christ,” Lestrade swore, bringing the armed officers to the front, hurrying to chase after John as the man stalked directly towards them. The gun shook where it was held to Sherlock’s temple but the tattooed forearm flexed.

“Stop right there!” The gunman shouted.

“Let him go,” John said, his voice heavy and clear in the echoing building.

“Fuck you, I have demands!” The criminal shouted, pointing his weapon at John’s advancing figure whilst hiding behind his human shield.

“No, what you have is my partner, now let him go,” John said again, his voice chilling and brokering no argument. The criminal tried anyway.

“You won’t get him back until my demands get met,” he threatened, gun pressed again to the detective’s head.

“John, get back,” Lestrade ordered. John shook his head, not even looking at him as he took another step forward.

“No,” he snarled, angry at the world and looking more intimidating than Lestrade had ever seen him. “He’s mine.”

“John, **get back** ,” The inspector demanded, but John didn't even hesitate, didn't even seem to feel the force of the command. Lestrade’s mouth dropped open.

“ **No** ,” John snarled over his shoulder, before training all of his attention on the criminal before them. “ **Now get the fuck on the ground**.”

Dominance washed over the whole room, sending shivers through everyone there, Dom or sub, and sent the majority of them crashing to the floor. Muscles seized as bodies were forced to comply, subs going face down, absolutely melting under the command, unwilling but helpless Doms being pushed to their knees, expressions of shock and fright on their faces. Lestrade and Donovan and two SFO officers were the only people left standing, and even then they were staggering, fighting the impulse to kneel. Donovan shook in her sensible shoes, a choked “What the fuck?” squeaking out of her mouth as she shuddered down to her knees.

“ **Drop your weapon** ,” came the next command and weapons throughout the warehouse clattered to the ground. Even the inspector’s baton dropped from his hand, despite the clenching of his muscles to pick it back up.

Greg fought to look up, the heavy wave of Dominance thick in the building, holding him in place. He watched as John stopped his advance twenty feet from the pair. The criminal was on his face, gun sliding away from him, squirming under the weight of John’s gaze and demands.

Lestrade was stunned. The man he thought he knew, a man he thought was submissive, had the whole room, filled mostly with Doms, kneeling before him, weapons on the floor. Greg didn't think he’d ever felt stronger Dominance, except maybe from Mycroft, and only then during the most mind blowing sex. He couldn’t help but think to himself, _‘Why they didn't tell me they were gay?’_

That’s what he thought, at least, until he forced his head up and his gaze landed on Sherlock.

He sat on his heels, kneeling prettily in the halo of light, head bowed, hands in his lap.

“ **Sherlock** ,” John growled, his whole body vibrating with tense, angry energy. The detective’s head lifted obediently, shoulders lowered, looking up through his lashes. “ **Here, now**.”

Sherlock surged to his feet, rushing towards his partner, _his Dom_. He sunk to his knees at John’s feet with a quiet “Yes sir”, gazing up at him desperately. John shuddered with the force of his relief, his fingers spearing through his hair, pulling his head in against his stomach.

“Good boy,” John sighed, fingers massaging through thick curls. “That’s my good boy.” Sherlock melted against him, arms looping around his waist, burying his face in his wooly jumper. John sighed, a wracking, shaking sigh, as his other hand came up to cup the back of his sub’s neck.

They stood together, as if alone, in the middle of a room full of floored Doms and subs alike. John titled the detectives head up with a firm grip on his neck and bent to place a hard, forceful kiss to his open and pliant lips.

“You will be in so much trouble when we get home,” John said to him. The undercurrent of strength in his words had Greg shivering, even without it having been a command. “So much trouble. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock answered, fingers clenching where they gripped the hem of the soldier’s jumper.

“Do you know why I’m going to punish you later?” John asked, his tone steely.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said, looking down, unable to meet John’s hard gaze, until John grabbed his jaw again in a fierce grip, forcing him to meet his eye. “I put myself in danger without informing you,” he answered, obedient as could be.

“And nearly got yourself killed,” John growled.

“And nearly got myself killed, sir,” Sherlock replied quietly.

“I am so very angry with you,” John said, his voice low and strong and frankly terrifying.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Sherlock said, and for the first time Greg heard him apologize without a trace of sarcasm or irony. John released a shuddering breath and kissed him roughly again, pushing deeply into the detectives mouth, reaffirming his claim.

“Good boy,” John said again, releasing his face before tugging his head back in to rest against him. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” he murmured to him, pressing one last kiss to the top of his head before straightening up and looking around.

“Greg,” he called, no Dominance necessary now that he had his sub in his arms. “If you would please,” he said, nodding towards the criminal on the floor, looking at John with eyes wide with fear. Lestrade struggled towards them through the lingering Dominance and commands filling the air.

“Shite, John,” he said, pulling his cuffs from the back of his belt. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry?” John asked, hands still carding through inky locks, looking every bit the innocent doctor.

The DI just shook his head and, as the heavy air dissipated, stunned officers struggled to their feet. The gangster was cuffed and drug form the building, recovering officers sent throughout the warehouse to check that the men in other areas hadn’t been affected by John’s Dominant explosion.

They had been.

“You’re a fucking sub?” Sergeant Donovan shouted at Sherlock, where he remained at John’s feet. “You do all the crazy shit you do, making demands, talking back to all the Doms like you do, and you’re a fucking sub?” Sherlock didn't so much as stir on response to the sergeant’s words. He merely pressed his face against John’s jumper, breathing deeply in time to the stroke of the fingers in his hair. “You’re not even going to answer me?” she shouted, further enraged at yet another display of obstinacy.

“ **Donovan, stop** ,” John barked, his eyes flaming even as his hands stayed gently but firm on his lover’s head and neck. “I think my sub has been through enough today, hmm? You will not shout at him when I’ve got him down.”

Donovan blinked, having been silenced by the command. When she came back to herself it was in a righteous fury.

“You let him get away with anything! Until today, we all thought he was _your_ Dom! And this whole time, you’ve been letting him get away with whatever he wants,” She snarled, fuming. “What kind of Dom are you?”

“ **Turn. Go. Now** ,” John ordered easily, needing only a second of eye contact before Donovan was walking briskly from the building. Halfway to the door she came to senses, huffing loudly and tossing obscenities over her shoulder even as her feet continued to carry her away from the pair. “You’d better punish him for this!” was her last echoing attack before she was happily removed from their presence.

“You just Dommed a Dom,” Greg said as he came to stand beside John, mindful of personal space, as Sherlock was still kneeling on the floor and seemingly well into his own headspace. “You just Dommed a room full of Doms. You just Dommed _me.”_

Sherlock turned his face away from John enough to glare at him, even though his eyes were evidently unfocused as he swam through subspace.

“Mine,” he insisted from his position on the floor. The DI held his hands up in surrender, grinning ruefully down at the detective, shaking his head even as he reckoned with the fact that he had gotten a little hard earlier.

“Don’t worry, Holmes, I don’t think John would be much fun for me,” he flashed John an awestruck look. “I’m not able to Dom him back.”

“No, you're not,” John agreed with a carefully contained smirk.

“And, Jesus, Sherlock, you’re a sub?” Greg asked, well and truly gobsmacked.

Sherlock merely hummed, rubbing his face against his Dom’s hip again.

“I never would’ve guessed,” Lestrade admitted.

“That’s kinda the point,” the doctor said with a shrug. “He wouldn’t get very far as a consulting detective arsehole if he didn't have at least the idea of Dominance to back him up.” Sherlock merely shrugged against him, not even opening his eyes as his hands fisted tighter in his jumper.

“Well I guess that makes sense,” Lestrade said, raking a hand back through his hair as he wrestled with the revelations of the day.

 “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take Sherlock home,” John said, prompting the DI out of his thoughts.

“He has to give a statement. Christ, you will, too,” the inspector said, rubbing a hand down his face. “We’re going to have to edit any paperwork we’ve got with you two in it. _Fuck_.”

John shrugged unapologetically.

“You should’ve asked for my ID.”

“I just assumed. I mean, I always figured Sherlock was Dominant.”

“That was your first mistake.”

“Yeah, well I see that now,” Greg shook his head. “I can’t believe Myc didn't tell me.”

“Does Sherlock often come up when you two are alone?” John asked, quirking a brow.

“I suppose not,” the DI admitted with a huff. Sherlock had remained silent through the exchange, and looking down, Greg found his eyes were closed as he leaned heavily against his Dom’s legs.

“Yeah, Greg, we can do statements later, I really just want to get my sub home already,” John said, lines of distress creeping back over his face. Greg considered for a moment before acquiescing. He’d never done it himself, but he couldn’t imagine that having your sub down in public was a very secure kind of feeling.

“Alright, fine, get him outta here.”

“Come on, love, on your feet,” John gently urged, the hand in his hair gently tugging upwards before trailing down his back as the taller man stood, head bowed respectively.

John gave Greg one parting wave before he began leading his sub out of the building, towards home.

“One more thing,” the DI called after them. John stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “How come you let everyone think you were a submissive?” Lestrade asked, genuinely confused.

John merely grinned at him with an easy shrug.

“I'm Dominant enough not to care whether everyone knows it or not.”

The inspector watched as the doctor escorted the detective out of the warehouse, both hands on him, murmuring gently to him. Sherlock swayed into him with every step, hands clinging to the sleeves of his jumper. When they came to a stop outside for John to call for a cab, Sherlock wordlessly melted to the floor, slumping contentedly against his Dom’s knees. Greg watched as John dropped his free hand into his hair like it was the most natural thing in the world. And if you’d asked him yesterday if he’d ever imagined anything of the sort, Lestrade would’ve had you committed. But seeing it now? It just sorta made sense.

The DI never would’ve guessed Sherlock to be a submissive. But if ever anyone could Dom him, it sure as hell would be John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, of course my dears, always taking suggestions and corrections.


	14. Horrified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'ed or britpick'ed, and honestly kind of rushed. I'm leaving for a two-week trip to China with my sister tomorrow, and will very likely not be able to update for quite a while. This fic is not over, I have dozens of lovely suggestions that I cannot wait to tackle, but it might be a couple weeks before you hear from me again. So as a temporary parting gift, I give you this and hope it's enough to tide you all over long enough that you don't give up on me :) Hope you enjoy.

It took a lot to truly horrify Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade had seen him wade into a two foot deep pile of body parts with a look of glee on his face as he dug around for the “ _right_ left arm.” Greg had seen him drag a dirty sleeping bag out of a dumpster and climb inside it on a stakeout to “blend in with the natural fauna.” Sherlock once had to watch a recording of his boyfriend being beaten as part of a hostage situation, and even through that he kept his head, stayed calm and focused. He never let his horror show, if he felt it at all.

Greg saw it once, though. Saw full-fledged terror and disgust on those so carefully controlled features. And he had been the cause of it.

 

Mycroft had gotten back from a trip a night earlier than he was supposed to have. He road to the office to lock up the secure documents with a pleased and relaxed satisfaction. He contemplated breaking into Gregory’s flat and sliding into bed with him over surprising him with breakfast first thing in the morning. Mycroft was still deciding when he walked down the hallway to his office. Anthea gave him a slight smirk when he dropped necessary paperwork on her desk, one he was still puzzling over as he turned his office doorhandle.

One that was solve when he stepped inside to see a certain Detective Inspector leaning one hip casually against his desk, arms folded across his chest, a come-hither smile on his face.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said coolly, shooting his gaze out the closing door, Anthea’s expression carefully blank as she pointedly looked only at the paper before her. Mycroft narrowed his eyes fractionally at the side of her face even as his lip twitched.

“I think we can dispose of formalities, don’t you think, Mr. Holmes?” The older man said with a devilish grin. The politician kept his demeanor completely cool.

Until the door clicked closed.

The two men surged at each other.

Teeth clashed and hands grappled as the men met in the middle of the large office space, long legs eating up space as they rushed together.

Long fingers speared through grey hair and callused hands rumpled bespoke trousers.

“I missed you,” Greg growled against his partner’s lips before his mouth fell to sink teeth into the tender skin below his jaw. Mycroft gasped to the ceiling, jerking back into rough hands as they gripped his arse with bruising force.

“Did you?” Mycroft breathed raggedly, grinding against the proffered thigh.

“Every second,” the inspector vowed, tearing buttons off of the thousand quid shirt keeping him from rosy nipples.

“How fortunate for you that I’m back.” Pale hands wrapped around the back of his head, holding his mouth against the dusky pink. The ginger head tipped back, mouth falling open, eyes sliding closed.

“Say you missed me,” Gregory growled, digging teeth into nerve filled skin.

Mycroft gasped at the ceiling, but stayed quiet. Greg growled again, biting harder and dragging the slender man tighter against him, hips rolling lewdly. “Say it.”

“I missed you,” Myc huffed and his partner swallowed it down, lips hungry and devouring. The taller man moaned into thin lips and a hot mouth. Mycroft expected the inspector to tease him, to ask him to prove it, to ask him to say it again.

He didn’t. He merely groaned into his mouth and gripped the sides of his face.

Gregory kissed him fiercely, tongue pushing into his mouth. He ripped the buckle of the belt free, leaving it in his loops in his haste to shove his hands down the back of his lover’s trousers, one dry fingertip pressed temptingly against his hole.

“I want to fuck you,” he breathed against wet and swollen lips. “I need to fuck you, please Mycroft.” The politician groaned, leaning hard against his partner. Penetration wasn’t something they often did, never truly having the time or patience. But the younger man knew exactly how hard he would come around his lover’s cock, and he was leaking through the front his trousers.

“Yes, Gregory.” Mycroft pressed his flushed face to the curve of his salty, lightly scruffed neck.

“Lube?”

“Desk drawer.”

The inspector looked at the government official with a startled gleam in his eye.

“Mycroft, you dirty man, jacking in the office?” he teased, crossing behind the massive mahogany desk.

“One never knows when a dashing detective might come calling,” the other man answered, flashing a rare but gorgeous smile as he shed himself unceremoniously of his ridiculously expensive clothes.

Greg watched as he picked up discarded clothes and draped them over the chairs before the desk, looking up to grin boyishly at the older man on the other side. Mycroft walked a slow circle around the desk, freckled skin shifting as he prowled towards the silver haired man. He slipped into the narrow space between Gregory’s still clothed body and the dark wood of the furniture, his naked arse pressed against the edge.

“Well?”

“Anything you want on this desk undamaged and undisturbed,” Greg said lowly, leaning his weight forward against the other man, “move it now. Or I’ll just fuck you on top of it.” Mycroft nipped at his lips before turning to do as suggested, sliding papers into folders and folders into the drawer, left open from Greg’s rummaging.

And if the snap of a cap behind him was of any significance, then that rummaging had borne fruit.

A warm, dry hand slid up his spine before curling around the nape of his neck and _pushing._ Mycroft went to his elbows on the desk. And then flat on his face as the hand continued to press and rough trousers pressed against bare arse and thighs. The dry hand at his neck squeezed and Mycroft grinned against dark wood.

Until a decidedly (deliciously) wet hand slid between freckled cheeks, spreading lubricant, rubbing circles into his perineum and tugging gently on smooth bollocks. Mycroft shivered, tilting his hips and shuffling his legs farther apart.

“Gorgeous, love,” Gregory whispered. Mycroft could picture the look on his face all too easily; the parted lips and darkened eyes of lustful rapture. The hand at his neck slid back down his pale flank to grasp a warm cheek and spread. Mycroft closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the wood as the first finger breached him slowly.

For all that he’d been force facedown against his own work desk, Gregory was incredibly careful in preparing him, going gently and  slowly, one finger and then two. It was the scratch of cheap polyester against his thighs and the inside of his knees, the meaty slap of his heavy cock, pulled from his flies and pressing against his arse cheeks, that reminded the politician of what a debauched picture his lover had painted of them.

Three fingers pressed hotly into his slick entrance and Greg leaned forward over his body, the plastic circles of his shirt buttons shockingly cool against the taller man’s heated skin. Knuckles brushed against his tightly stretched rim as straight white teeth tugged on a sensitive earlobe.

“Think you’re ready, Myc?” He asked, nuzzling his nose into ginger hair as his groin ground against his hand and the arse it was buried in, pressing the fingers dazzlingly against his prostate. His other hand snuck around a sweaty hip to scratch dull fingertips through coarse, ginger hair, and Mycroft pushed back against him, a throaty moan his only possible answer.

With an expert change of hands, one leaving his body as the other wrapped around his aching cock, Greg nudged the head of his erection against the slick hole laid open to him. With a deep breath out, Greg pressed in, the head disappearing through the ring of muscle, and it was with a heart-deep groan that he slid in another hot inch.

“Okay?” he asked, a firm stroke over his partner’s cock earning him a rapid nod and a cheeky push backwards, swallowing another couple inches. “Well alright then,” Greg huffed, sliding both hands to grip at his waist. Fingers bit into soft flesh as he pressed in the last, crucial bit, bottoming out inside his lover’s body. He took a moment to smooth a gentle kiss to the boney knob at the nape of his neck before straightening up and slowly pulling out.

Looking down over his spread lover, back flushed and shining from a light sheen of sweat, on his face on his own desk, feet shuffling further apart and hips tilting to pull that hot, throbbing cock just that much deeper, Greg didn't think he’d ever seen anything so beautiful.

And he wanted nothing more than to fuck him through the wood.

Hips snapped forward and the officer settled into a punishing rhythm, the sound of slapping skin filling the room, matched only by the breathy gasps and heavy moans flowing from the two men. Mycroft’s hips tilted just right, and with a steadying hand on the small of his back, Greg slid in against his prostate with each and every thrust, turning gasps to keens and clamping muscles down around his cock.

A tan hand trailed up a sweaty spine and curled into auburn hair, yanking his head up off the desk, greedily soaking up the sounds falling from his lover’s bitten lips.

“That’s right, Myc, love, let me hear you,” he said, grinding with each stroke as the two raced ever closer to a climax several weeks late.

“Find it validating, do you?” the politician managed, though his voice was choked and his breathing uneven.

“Absolutely,” Greg growled. “Now get up here and let me kiss those sounds right out of your mouth.” Mycroft grinned a loose grin before pushing up on shaky arms, helped along by the fist in his hair, which turned his head to meet his partner in a sloppy, wet kiss. The new angle had electricity flowing through his nerves, his whole body alight as his partner’s cock pressed against his walls, stabbing and dragging along his prostate with every stroke inside him.

Thighs pressed against the hard line of his desk, back curved and head turned, Mycroft hung immobile in the maelstrom of sensations holding him coiled against the chest of his lover, keening loudly into his mouth.

“Gre—,” he tried, before a rough, beautiful hand thumbed the soaked and slippery head of his neglected cock, tearing a shattering groan from deep in his chest. Colors dashed before his eyes and the shuddering of the man behind him, holding him close, forcing their lips together, hand shaking in his hair, body hot pressed against him, told him he was not alone in the wash of pleasure.

“Yes, Mycroft, yes, fuck, say my name,” Greg growled desperately into his mouth.

“ _Gregory_ ,” Mycroft moaned, getting a mouthful of salt and pepper hair as his inspector dropped his head forward to sink his teeth into the milky flesh of his shoulder.

“Yes, yes, fucking gorgeous,” he huffed, hot breath feeling cool over Mycroft’s scorching skin. “God, I love that, please, again.”

“Gregory, yes,” he replied, fingers in spasm where they gripped at the back of Greg’s head and on his sweat-smooth hip. “Please, Gregory, I’m so close.” The older man breathed another string of obscenities against his skin, sliding lips up his neck and to his ear, his hand speeding to match the force of his thrusts, squeezing tighter and thumbing the tip, fanning the flames he felt burning through his lover’s skin.

“Gregory,” he gasped, his voice high and strangled. “Fuck, Gregory. _Gregory.”_

“Fucking hell, Myc, you’re so fucking tight. Love when you curse,” Greg whimpered into his ear, eyes glazed where they stared down his partner’s chest. “When you lose it. When you’re _mine_.”

“ _Gregory!_ ” he shouted, the muscles in his abdomen clenching and tensing, jerking in his lover’s grip, his name on a shuddering repeat, every aftershock loudly named for the man who caused it.

It was in the middle of the second or third repetition, “Greg—” just leaving his lips when the office door swung open, revealing a coat shrouded detective and his jumper clad partner, mouths dropped open in shock.

Greg was frozen in the shock of it. The inspector’s eyes went wide as the cock in his hand gave another lurch, his name echoing through the room, Sherlock recoiling bodily as if to escape ever seeing the scene before him. His partner shook against him, jarring the older man and helping his brain to catch fire once more.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Greg bit out, arms wrapping tightly around his lover and spinning them, painfully and inelegantly, knocking Mycroft’s lax knee against the desk as he shielded the politician with his body.

There was a moment of shocked silence, Mycroft struggling to think as his unaware cock gave two more thick bursts, Greg catching his breath against his partner’s back, cursing into his skin in anger instead of pleasure. John had a hand clapped over his mouth, eyebrows high on his forehead and he fought to swallow the laugh he knew would only get him audited come morning.

Sherlock, though. Sherlock’s face, when Greg looked over his shoulder to scream at it, was contorted in the most terrified caricature of horror and disgust Greg had ever seen. His nose crinkled and his mouth was agape in shock. He looked like he’d just gazed into pits of hell and found it lined with shit and dripping with mucous. He looked as though he’d just drank a month’s worth of fermented cat piss, or slipped bodily into a vat of picked scabs. He looked like he was watching insects and arachnids climbing out from under his own skin.

He looked like he’d just walked in on his older brother getting fucked over his own desk, screaming his lover’s name.

The revulsion and repulsion on his face was enough to temper the fury in the inspector. Even as he slipped limply from his partner’s body, he couldn’t find it in him to scream his frustrations at the horrified man. The look on his face. It was like nothing Greg had ever seen before.

His head dropped forward onto a sweaty, freckled shoulder and began to chuckle. Quietly at first, but when John joined in with his infectious giggle, he couldn’t help but laugh outright, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Sorry you had to see that, mate,” He said, looking back over his shoulder at Sherlock’s still horror-struck face. “And hear it.”

Sherlock gagged. No exaggeration, no play-acting, honest to God nausea sweeping through the man. His hand flew to his mouth and his whole body lurched as he fought the bile rising in his throat. He had to put a hand on the doorframe to steady himself, unable to tear his eyes from the disgusting display before him.

Mycroft was noticeably silent, catching his breath, eyes locked on the ground as he tried very, very hard to convince himself that what was happening wasn’t _really happening._

Before he was forced to address the situation, though, Sherlock was full on sprinting away from the office, racing down the hallway, making for the door like a frightened thoroughbred out of the gate. John followed him out, not nearly at the same pace, but rapidly nonetheless.

There was silence in the office, neither man seemingly able to discuss what had just occurred. Mycroft sagged back against the older man, his full weight resting against his chest as he dropped his head back against his shoulder and groaned a pained, mortified groan. Gregory chuckled again, pressing a light kiss to the ginger temple.

“You okay?”

“He will never talk to me again,” Mycroft said to the ceiling, cheeks charmingly lit with embarrassment. “Not like our current relationship of never talking. He will quite literally _never_ speak to me ever again.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad, really,” Greg joked, easing the other man off his chest, arms only coming loose from around him when he was standing fully on his own. “C’mon, love, let’s get home.”

 

 

 

 

 

Three days after the incident, Greg found himself clomping up the seventeen stairs to 221B. Sherlock hadn’t been by, hadn’t texted, hadn’t even snuck into the Yard to filch a file. But the inspector had just gotten something in his inbox he thought the consultant would love.

He refused to call it a peace offering, so he didn’t let himself think too hard about exactly why he was knocking on their door.

John answered, of course, with a smile on his face and an offer for a cuppa.

“Ta, mate. Your lesser half around?” he asked, raising the file in his hand and stepping through the open door, peering into the kitchen.

“Upstairs,” John replied, poking his head out the door to call up to the man. “Sherlock, Greg is here.”

“Who?” came the reply. John and Greg shared a look.

“Greg,” John repeated. “He’s got a case for you.”

There was a screech of a stool scraping across the floor before the dressing coat-clad detective pattered lightly down the stairs, a look of interest on his face. When his eyes landed on Greg, however, a flash of surprise flew fleetingly over his features.

“Oh, Lestrade,” he said by way of greeting. “When did you get here?”

“Just came in,” Greg answered slowly, confused by the detective’s surprise.

“Ah, well,” Sherlock said, brushing his presence off like a fly off of toast, turning instead to John. “You said there was a “Greg,” here, with a case?”

The two other men looked at the (supposed) genius with uncomprehending faces. They looked to each other with the same bewilderment.

“What’s wrong with you?” John asked, stepping forward to feel his partner’s forehead. Sherlock’s brow furrowed in offense.

“You’re the one who called me down from a delicate experiment for a client who is not even here.”

“What are you talking about, Greg is right here,” John said exasperatedly, gesturing to the aforementioned inceptor with the hand not taking Sherlock’s pulse.

“Oh, that’s his first name?” Sherlock asked, the picture of disinterest.

“Sherlock, you know my name,” Greg said, a frown on his face.

“Well I do now.”

“No, you knew it a week ago, too.”

“I must’ve deleted it,” He said imperiously, pulling away from his doctor’s ministrations to flounce over to the couch and toss himself onto it. “Not important anyway.”

Greg stood in dumbstruck silence for all of a minute, watching the bored detective drape himself across the furniture like a bored prince looking at his subjects, before bursting into loud, impolite laughter. He laughed so hard, his stomach hurt and he had to wipe tears from his eyes to better see the carefully masked but not invisible confusion and alarm on the detective’s’ face.

“Lestrade, what is the matter with you?” he demanded. Greg took a heaving, giggling breath.

“You deleted my first name,” he said on a chuckle.

“Yes, so? Why is that amusing?”

“It’s not _that_ you did. It’s _why_ you did.” Greg’s cheeks hurt from grinning.

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes at that. “It’s not important,” he answered dismissively.

“No, that’s not it,” Greg said, looking at John, who had caught ona nd with giggling as well.

“Oh? Pray tell, why did I do it then?” came the haughty reply from the sofa, one hand twirling indulgently in the air.

“Because you walked in on your brother screaming it.”

The decteive froze for a moment before shooting upright into a sitting position, so fast he nearly fell over. His eyes went blank as Greg’s words unlocked a very securely shut door in his mindpalace. A door with so many KEEP OUT and DANGER signs on it that Sherlock had deleted it’s very location.

Memories flooded back and the genius doubled over with a heave, fear and disgust clear on his face as he gagged. John and Greg fell into side-stitching laughter as the man went to his knees with dry heaves.

“Get out!” Sherlock croaked at his body was wracked with another lurch. “Get out and never, EVER mention that to me again. I will delete it all. I never want to think of that again. ANY of it. Never again.” Another gag, a hand covering his mouth. Sherlock staggered to his feet, brushed past the laughing men and locked himself in the bathroom.

When the tears were wiped from his eyes, ~~Greg~~ , _Lestrade_ acquiesced, leaving the file for John sake and leaving the flat for Sherlock’s. He grinned all the way home.

He now had the ultimate defense against Sherlock Holmes. The ability to horrify him in a way nothing else could ever do. And debilitate him with disgust and revulsion so strong it literally sent him to his knees. And the best part was, Sherlock wouldn’t even know he had such a weapon. Lestrade grinned harder.

He couldn’t wait to tell Mycroft.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So so incredibly sorry this update has taken so incredibly long. This story is not dead, I already have another chapter in the works and plenty of lovely prompts to draw from! That being said, it has been terribly busy for me lately and I don't have a full chapter for you yet. But for any faithful reader out there, checking this story for updates, I thought I'd give you this short little fluffy thing, just so you'd remember that this story is still being continued. Have faith my friends, the show will go on :)

When will you be home? –SH

 

At the same time I told you yesterday. And the day before that. –JW

 

You were supposed to have changed your mind. –SH

 

And why would I have done that?—JW

 

Because you were supposed to miss me by now.—SH

 

Of course I miss you, love—JW

But that doesn’t mean I can come home any sooner.—JW

 

That’s exactly what that’s supposed to mean.—SH

 

Do I ask you to come home every time I miss you?—JW

 

If you did, I would.—SH

 

No you wouldn’t, you liar, you're just saying that so I’ll come home. –JW

 

True. –SH

Please, John, it’s insufferably boring here –SH

 

I thought you just got a new case? –JW

 

Yes, but there’s no one here to solve it with me. –SH

 

You mean there’s no one there to watch you solve it and tell you how pretty you are. –JW

 

You say that like wanting that is a bad thing. –SH

Come home. –SH

 

I’ll be home after the conference. –JW

 

But that won’t be for two more days. –SH

 

Yes, dear, I know. –JW

 

The flat smells different without you in it. –SH

 

I miss you too. –JW

Wait, what the fuck have you done to the flat?—JW

I swear, if I have to buy Mrs. Hudson another table because you’ve killed the last one…—JW

 

You can’t kill a table, John. –SH

 

You could. –JW

 

Your faith in me is astounding. –SH

 

Don’t be a smart arse. –JW

 

You happen to love my arse. –SH

 

That’s not the point. –JW

 

Oh, but I think it is. –SH

If you were here, home, you could have my arse. –SH

 

Sherlock, stop. –JW

 

Anyway you wanted it. –SH

 

Sherlock, I’m in a lecture right now, stop. –JW

 

Must not be very good, if you’re sexting me through it. –SH

 

I'm not sexting, I’m being sexted. –JW

 

You could bite me like I know you love doing. –SH

I’d let you. –SH

I’d like it. –SH

 

I can’t believe this. –JW

 

Ask me to stop. –SH

 

I already have! —JW

 

Mean it. –SH

 

Sherlock. Stop it. –JW

 

**picture message**—SH

Still want me to stop?—SH

 

Oh fuck you. –JW

 

You could, if you were home. –SH

But here I am, fingers inside myself, open and slick, with no one to fuck me. –SH

 

You are a bad, bad man. –JW

 

Maybe you should teach me a lesson. –SH

 

This is getting ridiculous. –JW

Stop doing this. –JW

Go solve your case. –JW

 

Lestrade will have to do then. He thinks I'm pretty. –SH

 

For the case, right? –JW

Just for the case. Not for the other thing. –JW

Don’t even joke, Sherlock. –JW

 

He does though. He thinks I’m very pretty. –SH

 

Sherlock, don’t make me murder my friend. –JW

 

Come home and you won't have to. –SH

 

You’re holding Greg’s life hostage? –JW

 

You’re the one threatening him. –SH

 

If he touches you, he’s dead. –JW

That goes for anyone. –JW

I’ll leave tonight. –JW

 

 

“Lestrade, phone.”

“I’m not your bloody secretary.”

“John isn’t here. Phone.”

“It’s a text from John.”

“He’s boarding the train, then?”

“Yup, says he’ll be home for dinner. That’s cute, very domestic of you… Wait, what is this? Why was John threatening my life?”

“Stop scrolling. Do not look as any messages before that. Or he will likely kill you.”

“Christ, what did you do?”

“Nothing. I merely insinuated that if he didn’t come home early from that dreadful conference that I would have sex with you.”

A pause.

“Sherlock, you realize that people in healthy relationships don’t do that to each other.”

“How do you mean?”

“You threatened to cheat on him if he didn’t do what you wanted.”

"Oh, hardly. I merely mentioned that you think I am pretty. He did the rest all on his own.”

“You’re telling me that John Watson threatened my life for no other reason than that you told him I think you’re _pretty_?”

“They’re may have been some contextual factors, but essentially, yes.”

A pause.

“He really loves you.”

A pause.

“Yes. He does.”

A pause.

“Would he really kill me?”

“Undoubtedly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay with me, buddies, there are more, and much better, chapters to come! :)


	16. Generous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was suggested by Sheeijan who requested "Sherlock and John were chasing someone and somehow John managed to drop/lose something of personal value to him (no idea what), and after they've got the bad guy John is left to guard him while Sherlock has to go lead the Yarders to them. And instead of leading them back directly, he leads them all over the place because he's busy looking for whatever John dropped/lost."
> 
> Also, major thanks to Caz, my brilliant beta and britpicker :)

They ran.

They ran and it felt like sunlight. Cold and dark and smelled like urine and alleyways and John felt like he was filled with pure, burning sunlight as they raced through narrow black streets and slipped in rubbish and puddles. Breathless and hearts racing, beating fast around blind corners, eyes locked only on a dark shape in front of them, sprinting hard in the desperation born only by escape.

Footsteps pounding beside him, long legs setting the pace he had to keep up with, lungs burning but buoyant with the chase.

They were gaining ground and every step felt like a small victory. Bounding around corners, feeling brick scrape cold, thin skin and tasting Belstaff as a corner whipped up into his face. A giddy, breathy laugh left his lips and for a fraction of a second their eyes met, gleaming with the _game._

Closing fast, they can hear his breathing, desperate and hitching, he can hear them gaining.

It’d been a long chase. They’d caught him twice. Grappled, fought, lost him again. More running, more chasing.

John’s ribs ached with the impressions of fists and elbows, his lungs burned from wooden breathing and cold London air.

Sherlock’s hair was damp with sweat and heavy fog, the tie of his scarf thumping against his chest, Italian leather slipping through slime.

The boy looked back. A split second, head over his shoulder, eyes wide with fear and frantic despondency, a split second but a crucial one. The single falter in his step, the twist of his body, gave up all his gained ground as his pursuers surged towards him, steady steps and sure strides, bringing them right against the youth’s neck.

Sherlock reached out with his bloody long arms, snagging the ratted jacket, twisting his collar brutally and yanking. Gangly limbs kept running, though his head and neck stayed behind and suddenly he was on his back, gasping as his lungs were sudden bereft of air, vision swimming as a detective and blogger looked down at their catch.

“Don’t let him get away again,” Sherlock said breathlessly, completely void of venom, giddy with adrenaline.

“He’s not going anywhere,” the doctor assured, nudging the youth with a steel toe. “He’s not even breathing yet.”

The young robber fought for breath, if only to prove his captor wrong. His throat rattled alarming, but he earned back a little of the wind he’d lost. The second he could draw a full breath, he flopped over onto his stomach and made to scramble away. A heavy boot landed on his lower back, not to hurt but to hold, and the boy flailed for several more moments before going limp.

Which lasted a minute before the floundering renewed. John’s boot had not left or let up.

There would be no more running tonight.

“He’s a feisty one, isn’t he?” the doctor remarked, adjusting the boot at his back, pinning him firmly to the dirty ground. “Doesn’t talk much though, normally they’re cursing by now.”

“Small mercies,” Sherlock mumbled distractedly, the blue glow of his phone lighting up his face framed with lank curls. “I do not want to suffer through monologuing tonight.”

The miscreant merely grunted under John’s foot, breathing heavily against the ground, falling limp and resigning to his fate.

“Lestrade and a car should be in the area in just a bit.”

“You think they’ll be able to drive here?” John asked, skeptically, looking back the way they’d come, at narrow alleyways and sharp corners. “We barely fit through,” he remarked, the back of one scraped hand pressed against an abrasion on the boney ridge of his brow.

“No, they won’t. They’ll get halfway here from the main road before they’ll have to leave the car,” Sherlock affirmed.

He looked once at the exhausted thief on the ground with distain written in the curl of his lips. “And to think this was the mastermind behind three vault heists.”

John shook him with the boot on his back, laughing.

“Should’ve kept it off the internet. Rule number one of stealing things, don’t post a picture of you doing it on Twitter.” The kid groaned against the ground. John chuckled again.

Sherlock looked at him, standing with one foot planted on a criminal as easily as catching a piece of trash blowing in the wind. Scraped from bricks and muddied from puddles, he smiled brilliantly, chuckling and glowing with ebbing adrenalin. He looked _beautiful_. Vengeful and beautiful and dangerous. Sherlock grinned, pupils blown and cheeks flushed.

“John,” he said lowly. His partner looked over at him, matching grins going dark as they read each other’s minds.

“Come here,” John said, winking wickedly.  Sherlock stalked in close, planting one foot between the quietly cursing youth’s shoulder blades, cold hands slipping under John’s jacket as his head dipped and their smiles met. John nipped playfully at his mouth and Sherlock huffed a laugh against him before deepening the kiss with a flick of his tongue.

Wet sounds of kisses played the soundtrack to viciously renewed struggles from the thief underfoot.

“Uh uh,” John admonished, stepping harder on his back, but otherwise not at all distracted. His hand fisted in Belstaff and cashmere scarf and Sherlock melted against him as he was expertly kissed by a man simultaneously holding down a thrashing teenager.

They broke apart with breathless giggles, the youth on the ground finally finding his voice and making his discomfort known. Sherlock dismissed him with a flick of his wrist and a final kiss to his lover’s lips.

“Lestrade will be needing a guide soon,” Sherlock said, stepping away and checking his mobile.

John went to check the time, pushing up the sleeve of his jacket only to curse savagely at the sight of his bare wrist.

“John?” his partner asked, before seeing his distinct lack of watch and frowning.

“Bastard must’ve torn it off when we caught him the first couple times.”

“You shouldn’t have let him get away,” came the very unsympathetic reply.

“That wouldn’t have changed the fact that my watchband was evidently broken,” John spat back, jovial mood completely gone.

Sherlock quirked his head to the side, studying John as his face displayed his emotional progression from confusion to anger and settling on sadness and disappointment.

“We can get you a new watch,” Sherlock offered, attempting to fix the sad, sad look on his friend’s face. “A better one.”

“It was my da’s,” John sighed, looking at his naked wrist with a look of profound regret and dejection.

“Ah,” Sherlock answered, because it felt right to say, though he didn’t quite understand. As an issue of sentimentality, this was typically something he would ask John about, but he thought that might be ill received, as it was John whose sentiments were hurt. He shifted his weight awkwardly for a moment, wishing for John to no longer look like that, but completely at a loss as to how to fix it.

He was saved from the awkward feeling of inadequacy by the beeping of his mobile, alerting him that the D.I. was hopelessly lost as to where to find them.

“Lestrade is nearby,” Sherlock supplied for John, who couldn’t always infer his next move in situations where they went unspoken. John probably heard, but he was busy glaring daggers into the small-time thief’s back. Having decided anger was much easier to manage than sadness, he seemed to be pressing with unnecessary strength on the youth’s spine, squeezing out rushed apologies.

“Don’t kill him,” Sherlock said, more to punish the boy than to genuinely warn his partner. John would never, but the kid didn’t know that. “I already told the police that we took him alive. It would be suspect if they arrived and he was no longer so.”

Sherlock left to the frightened squeak of a small-time criminal suddenly realizing he has committed a much greater crime than merely breaking into safes; he lost Thomas John Watson’s watch. Which made John Hamish Watson very unhappy.

Which, in turn, made Sherlock unhappy. Even after so many years of working together and _being_ together, Sherlock still did not know how to successfully manage a sad John. The only times he’d ever cheered him up out of a bad mood had either been completely accidental or through sex with gratuitous eye contact and snuggling afterwards. Neither seemed likely to happen in this particular instance. The only thing that would erase the angry frown on his soldier’s face would be the return of his battered, leather-banded watch that had survived two wars, only to fall in the gloomy streets of London.

That would have to be it, then. Sherlock had no choice but to find the watch. And he was always such a resourceful one.

“Oi, Holmes, it’s about time you showed up. John with the suspect, then?”

“Yes, he’s been detained, you may thank us later. During the chase, however, he dropped evidence crucial to the closing of this case. On our way back, it is of the greatest importance that this artifact is recovered. Call in all the officers in the area, we will have to scour every inch of approximately two point three four kilometres of alleyway and skips. And by approximately, I mean exactly. ”

“Why is nothing ever easy with you, Holmes?”

“Why can you never do your own job without me?”

 

 

*********

 

It’d been too long. Too long for Sherlock to have headed back, got the Met and headed back and _still not be here._ John had given up standing on his captive and had instead decided to sit on him, giving his aching leg a rest. It had been long enough for him to stop being angry at the currently quietly crying criminal beneath him and focus instead on the mourning of his watch.

It was a beauty of a thing. Old, sure, scratched in some places, scuffed in others, but the back was still shining with the engraving of the Watson family crest. That watch had been bought by his grandfather, given to his da as a wedding present. That watch had gone to the Falklands and back on his father’s wrist. That clock face watched silent tears fall as his father gave it to him on the day before he left for his first deployment at the ripe age of only 25, the same age his father was when the watch was given to him, with the order to remember where he’d come from, even when he was so far away.

He had always imagined giving that watch to his own son one day. And while having children and a family with Sherlock Holmes, his partner of choice, was by no means assured or even likely, John had always kept that watch, waiting for a son or daughter to pass it along to on their 25th birthday.

But now it was lost to the rubbish and slime of London’s dirty, crime infested alleys.

Growing weary with wallowing in self-pity, John checked the time, having to physically stop himself from looking to his wrist and instead at the mobile in his hand. Sherlock had been gone for nearly an hour.

John’s sense of direction and distance was rather good, actually, what with years in Boy Scouts and then again in the army. He knew that they couldn’t have run anymore than two and a half kilometres, which Sherlock and his bloody long legs could easily do round-trip in twenty, maybe twenty five minutes. Thirty with the police in tow.

So where the fuck was his boyfriend?

 

_WHERE ARE YOU? –JW_

 

Nothing. John sighed. He checked again on his captive, making sure he was still breathing well and not complaining about anything of actual importance.

It wasn’t five more minutes before Sherlock was sauntering around the corner, with no less than eight officers and Greg, which totalled at eight more than was strictly necessary for this arrest.

“Why call in the calvary?” John asked, nodding with his head to all the extra uniforms.

“We had to sweep the area,” Greg answered, looking slightly confused as he glanced between John and Sherlock, who happened to be grinning that grin he grins when he thinks he’s got away with something especially clever.

“Sweep for what?” John asked, eyeing his partner carefully.

Instead of answering simply, Sherlock, always being the one for grandiose gestures, produces an evidence bag from the pocket of his swirling coat, holding it out proudly to John.

“What’s that, then?” John asked, finally getting up from his captive as two of Greg’s officers cuff and secure him.

“Why don’t you look inside,” Sherlock suggested, an annoyingly smug look on his aristocratic features. John, though he rolled his eyes, took the bag and peeled it open, looking inside by the dim light of the many police torches surrounding him.

Inside, laying folded over in the bottom of the red plastic, was a torn but mendable leather band and a familiar watch face with a brand new scratch.

John looked up at Sherlock and then back down at the watch, mouth agape and completely flabbergasted.

“How is this even, how could you have, where did you…” John continued to flail for words and Sherlock continued to smile smugly and Lestrade looked back and forth between the two. John reached into the bag and pulled with damaged watch out, cradling it carefully in his hand.

“Wait a second,” the D.I. said, holding up a hand before pointing accusingly at John. “Is this your watch?”

“Yeah, it was my da’s,” John said, his voice soft with awe and disbelief. “I can’t believe you found it.” He turned to Sherlock with the sunniest smile, love and gratitude oozing from his pours. “Sherlock, my God, thank you so—”

“No, no, no,” Greg cut in, fuming in the late night, foggy air. “No, this is not a Good Sherlock story. This is bad. Bad Sherlock.” Now the accusing finger was being jabbed the genius’ way. “You can’t just use the police like this! We’re not your personal metal detectors.”

Sherlock ignored him completely, him and all the other grumbling and complaining officers crammed into the narrow alley. He had eyes only for his partner, who was still looking between him and his recovered watch, as if he honestly wasn’t sure if this was real.

“So that’s what took you so long,” John said with a brilliant grin, all teeth and crinkles and overwhelming happiness.

“I would’ve been back sooner, but they couldn’t move any faster,” Sherlock said with a shrug and a grin, gesturing with his head to the officers standing around them, prompting a dull roar of indignations, reproaches and more than a few colourful curses.

“You didn’t have to,” John said, running his thumb lovingly over the new scratch adorning his old watch.

“You were frowning,” Sherlock said simply. “I would’ve found it myself, but why waste resources? It would’ve taken me over twice as long to do it myself.”

“But you would’ve?” John asked, his face still coloured with sunny disbelief.

“Of course,” Sherlock scoffed and Greg saw how honest of an answer that was.

Sherlock Holmes, the man who had just misappropriated police resources, wasting an hour and eight officers, clearly would’ve done it all over again. He would’ve done it himself, combing through rubbish and peering in shadows and searching through skips for hours on end, if it meant bringing an old watch back to the wrist and a smile to the face of his very best friend.

Greg Lestrade had never considered Sherlock a very giving or generous man, but seeing him now, Lestrade couldn’t think of a single thing the detective wouldn’t do for his blogger. It was quite a sweet thing to see.

But he was still unspeakably grateful that Sergeant Donovan had not been dragged along on this particularly ridiculous and arrogant escapade. Seeing the giving side of Sherlock Holmes would not have eclipsed the aching feet and the fiery indignation she’d be feeling. He wouldn’t have heard the end of that for months. Neither would his superiors.

Still, he couldn’t quite begrudge Sherlock this own. Had he been upfront, he would’ve helped anyway. Would he have called in four other panda cars? No, probably not. But who could stop the force of nature that was Sherlock Holmes?


	17. Cuddly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably took "cuddly" way too far in this. But I've been assured by my lovely beta Caz that it is not too much or too little. I sincerely hope that you all agree as well!

Sleep was never something Sherlock Holmes was good at. He never remembered to do it, he resented his body’s need for it, and frankly he found it a complete waste of time. He made a habit of ignoring its call when his eyes grew heavy, pushing through it until he reached that lovely place of sleep deprivation that was nearly as good as being high.

Granted, with John came a more regular sleep pattern. Or, rather, with regular orgasms came a more regular sleep pattern. As much as he would like to believe otherwise, Sherlock Holmes was a man on the wrong side of thirty five, and as such he found it borderline impossible to escape the typical sleep-after-sex trope. It’s hard to resist; after having your brain sucked out of your cock or your wits fucked right out of your head, sleep naturally takes up the empty space.

And wasn’t John smug about it. The detective would wake up with the doctor’s arm tossed over his waist, a smile on his sleeping face, tugging Sherlock closer into his side. Or even worse, when John woke first and Sherlock had to surface to see his soft, adoring face, gazing at him as he blinked sleepily through tousled curls. That was unbearable. It made Sherlock feel all these dreadfully sentimental things. And yet he could not seem to ask John to stop doing it. Nor did he acknowledge what typically came next, which John insisted upon calling “nuzzling” but what was really only a search for the warmest spot in the bed. Which, coincidentally, happened to be pressed against or burrowed under some part of John.

But it was not some display of affection that had Sherlock’s cold nose nudging up against the underside of a stubbly jaw as his gangly arms fit perfectly against a strong chest, and cold feet curled against socked ones. No. Not at all.

Sherlock Holmes did not cuddle. He cuddled even less than he slept.

Unless you asked John Watson, in which case you’d be told that Sherlock Holmes cuddled _whenever_ he slept.

But he’s an idiot, so what does he know.

 

********

 

As a doctor, one of the things John does know, (although Sherlock would call him an idiot for this, too) is that the human body needs sleep. And without it, it is prone to collapse. As Sherlock occasionally demonstrated.

After a three day long binger in the laboratory, going on and on about bee pheromones and microscopes and science-y things that John could’ve understood but didn’t put forth the effort to follow at such a break-neck pace, the strung out genius was on his last leg. A very shaky, very tired leg. A leg that, as tired legs are prone to do, eventually gave out, dumping its owner unceremoniously forward onto his microscope, stabbing him in the face with the eyepiece and then awkwardly slumping to the floor in a dead sleep.

This resulted in a lot of work for the weary doctor. He checked vitals, saved all the samples and data that he could, apologized to Molly about the rest, heaved about 12 stone of dead weight up into a wheelchair, and then called in a few favors. Within thirty minutes, he was dropping his unconscious idiot onto a queen-sized bed in an empty room in the sleep-study ward. Thank God he worked in this hospital and people liked him here. Otherwise, he would’ve had to drag a lifeless body out into a cab. Which, even out of a hospital and in a cuddly jumper, would’ve looked suspicious.

As such, however, he was able to sweet talk his way into an empty room, complete with a real bed; doubly rare for a hospital. It helped that everyone he talked to was simultaneously enamored with and freaked out by the sight of a sleeping Sherlock. It was adorable to see his harsh features smoothed out in sleep, while also fundamentally disturbing to see that whirlwind of action eerily still.

John was grumbling to himself about stupid geniuses as he manhandled Italian leather shoes from his partner’s feet, having pulled down the thin hospital blankets to tuck him in. Sherlock twitched in his sleep, foot jerking away from John, prompting him to grab his ankle tightly to hold him still. Sherlock resisted, kicking at him reflexively, causing the well-meaning doctor to bark his name. Startled from his slumber, Sherlock’s eyes shuttered open, looking down the length of his body to his captive appendage.

“John?” he asked sleepily, the first of what would’ve been many question. Had he not been leveled with a glare so strong it was sentient.

"No. Sleep first, talking later.”

“But,” Sherlock began, before cutting himself off with a wide yawn.

“See, there you go. Now sleep.”

“Off,” Sherlock said succinctly, tugging at the buttons of his shirt. John sighed. Looking over his shoulder, he checked to be sure the door was locked, and then turned to what he knew to be a one-way mirror, used for observing in sleep studies. John shrugged, dismissing it.

"Fine, but then you sleep.” John made quick work of the detective’s clothes, having many hours of practice navigating lanky limbs from obscenely tight fabric. Taking everything but his pants, John brought the discarded clothes to a chair in the corner, folding them nicely before returning bedside and dropping a kiss on warm curls and pulling up the blankets.

“Sleep now,” he instructed. Sherlock grunted, twisting onto his side, cracking one eye open to glare at the doctor. He flipped the corner down, shuffling backwards in the bed like a boney worm.

“In,” he decreed, sounding equal parts sleepy and petulant. He was such a demanding little brat when he was truly exhausted. John sighed again. Looking once more at the locked door, and then at his watch, he let himself feel exactly how tired he was. He hadn’t stayed up for three manic days like his scientist had, but the hours had still be long, spending the majority of it in this very hospital, either working or spending time in the labs, attempting to bully Sherlock into snacks and breaks. _Attempting._

Sighing once more, John began to undress, shucking his jumper and toeing out of his shoes. Sherlock smiled triumphantly, as if reminding John of how annoying and frustrating his habits are was a victory. John folded his clothes and padded back to the bed in his pants, nudging at Sherlock to make more room. Which the detective pointedly didn’t.

Sliding into the bed and tugging the blanket back up to shoulder height, John was quickly incapacitated by miles and miles of milky white limbs, wrapping around his body and nuzzling up under his chin. And the fool says he never cuddled.

John settled the fingers of one hand between the knobs of his partner’s spine, the other hand curling around the pale forearm resting warmly on his chest. Sherlock hummed low in his chest, toes wriggling against John’s leg, exhaustion taking its due and settling in. John took in a deep, slightly frustrated but mostly very contented breath, and slept.

 

********

 

It honestly had started innocently.

John had asked her to clean up the remains of whatever Sherlock had been getting himself into for the last couple days, and seeing as how he had a couple armfuls of unconscious genius, she’d felt obliged to help. So Molly had. She’d cleaned up, sanitized and put everything to rights.

But Sherlock had been at it for _days,_ so it must’ve been important, right? And Sherlock would’ve gotten so upset if all the data and results had just been wiped from the computers or binned. And if Molly brought it to him, she might even get one of those distracted little thank you’s he occasionally tosses her way.

So she printed them out. All of them. Reels and reels of paper detailing the molecular structure of bee pheromones in comparison to some other compound that Molly had never once come across in all her years of schooling. Which was quite a few, in fact, she was very well respected in her field, if still young. Despite what Sherlock would say about her intellect.

Why she was ever interested in him, now she couldn’t say. It was probably just how very pretty he is. And his deep voice. And how soft his hair looks in the green lab light. But none of that mattered anymore.

Molly had a new boyfriend. Not that Sherlock had ever been her boyfriend. But she had someone who treated her well and appreciated her and all the sweet things she did for him. Not that she ever went out of her way to do sweet things for Sherlock, of course.

Anyway. She asked around and her friend upstairs in pediatrics, the one (read: _one of the many_ ) who was sweet on Dr. Watson, told her that he’d snagged a sleep study room for Sherlock to kip in. So naturally, Molly went and found them. And because Sherlock would be sleeping, but John wouldn’t want to go far, it only made sense to check the observation room first.

Which was empty. Because John Watson was on the other side. Underneath a great, big, boney, _naked_ pile of consulting detective.

Sound asleep and cuddling.

Molly Hooper should’ve taken her files and marched right out of that room. She had no right and no reason to watch two apparently naked men sleep together. She had no right to look at the way John’s hands lay proprietarily over fair skin. She had no reason to track the pale lines of Sherlock’s body as it lay on John’s chest, tracking the curve of his spine as it disappeared under the thin, hospital sheet, only to continue in the line of his lean thigh, where it was tucked up against the curve of his partner’s hip, only the knobby knee exposed. She had no right to wonder if he had pants on in between. She had no reason to wish that he didn’t.

She should’ve walked away.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t. Not with the impossible way they were entwined. It couldn’t have been comfortable for the doctor. From the angle she could see, with the bed slightly diagonal to the window, to provide the scientist with the best possible view of the subject, it didn’t look as though John could scarcely even breathe. It looked as though the whole of Sherlock’s weight was on the man, his hips on John’s stomach, his stomach on John’s chest and his chest on John’s shoulder, resting his head above John’s on the pillow. Sherlock’s knees were on either side of him, one arm under his neck, the other, which had to be dead asleep at this point, was between the two, reaching down under the sheet, flat along John’s belly.

Molly couldn’t help imagining what it was reaching for.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, watching them. Long enough for her feet to start to ache in her sensible shoes. Watching Sherlock’s bare ribs expand on each breath. Watching each exhale ruffle through John’s hair. Watching John turn his face into his partner’s neck, snuffling lightly in his sleep.

She stood, and she watched. Long enough for Sherlock to wake up.

Her breath caught in her throat. And though she knew he couldn’t see her, she immediately, frantically searched the room for an audio switch, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw it was clicked off. Audio from the room would play in, but no sound from her end would enter the room.

Not that she planned on staying. Not at all. Sherlock was awake now, she could complete her mission, deliver the files and be on her way.

But then Sherlock starting nuzzling his perfect nose into John’s flaxen hair. And he slowly began slinking down his body so their faces were aligned. Sure enough, though, he spent a tick flexing his hand, as if he woke up with pins and needles. It was a strange thing to see. It reminded Molly that the great detective was, in fact, human. But when his hand was awake as well, it too slid down farther along John’s body. Their faces were flush, and Sherlock levered himself up onto the arm under John’s neck, studying his face as the hand between them dipped lower still.

John groaned in his sleep and Sherlock smiled a wicked smile, the muscles in his arm flexing.

Molly shouldn’t be here. Her hands were sweating around the paper she was clutching as her brain pin wheeled as it attempted to understand what was happening in front of her.

Sherlock’s arm flexed again. John groaned again, fingers twitching where they rested on boney knees. The detective whispered something into a sleeping ear, shoulder dropping as his arm moved between them, and Molly’s breath caught in her throat as John’s eyes flew open as his hips pushed up into the hand around him.

“Oh good, you’re up,” Sherlock whispered darkly, his arm moving more obviously now, more purposefully.

“Christ,” John hissed, fingers sliding up to naked ribs, each digit slotting between a ridge.

“Well that’s flattering.”

John huffed a laugh, coming more fully awake.

“Alright, that’s enough of that,” he said, sliding a hand down the arm between them and stopping its motion. Pulling it back up out of the blankets, John kissed the knuckles before dropping it. He grabbed his partner’s hips instead and it one quick move, tipped the detective off and to the side. Sherlock fell willingly, but with a pouty look on his face. He lay on the bed next to John, skin looking bright against plain white sheets, a pile of pouty limbs, hands still crawling towards him.

“Jawn,” he whined sleepily, though the grin on his face was wicked. “Come back.”

“Go back to sleep, ‘Lock,” John grumbled. “You’ve been up for days. You literally keeled over, you were so tired. Go back to sleep.”

“I will,” Sherlock bartered, pushing himself up on an elbow to look down at John. “ _After,_ ” He finished, meaningfully.

Oh God. Molly shouldn’t be here. She should not be hearing this. This was not at all her place to be witnessing this.

Sherlock scooted closer still to the doctor, molding to his side, hips rocking minutely against his thigh and hand slipping under the blanket to cup him again. Pink lips met a scarred pink shoulder and John exhaled harshly through his nose.

“How exactly is your hand in my pants conducive to you sleeping?”

 _‘So there are pants,’_ Molly thought, before scolding herself for even wondering.

“I said I’d sleep after. After you make me come.”

Molly shivered. Her hands were sweating enough to darken the paper. She wanted to put the files down, but then she’d have nothing to do with her hands. She clutched them closer to her chest.

“I’m not fucking you in the same building I work in,” John said firmly, though the tone of his voice made it very clear that he wished he could say otherwise.

“You’re the one who wants me to sleep,” Sherlock said, as if that made all the sense in the world.

“Sleeping does not have to be proceeded by fucking,” John murmured, eyes still closed, either genuine in his attempts at sleep, or merely trying to better ignore the long fingered hand lazily stroking him under the sheet. “Or was that what the microscope did to your face before you passed out?” he added lightly.

Sherlock grimaced, raising his free hand to gently probe about his bruised brow bone where he’d fallen on the eyepiece.

“Does it hurt?” John asked, turning his face and finally opening his eyes to inspect the bruising. It was minimal, Molly wouldn’t have even been able to identify it from this distance had Sherlock not touched it.

“Not enough to distract me,” Sherlock said, pressing his hips more insistently against his doctor. John was unmoved, however, focused solely on carefully palpitating the slightly swollen ridge.

“You’ve got to be more careful,” John admonished lowly. “I quite like this face, I’d like to see it stay they same shape.” Sherlock chuckled lightly, eyes closing as strong fingers stroked his face.

John leaned in, kissing his injured eyebrow chastely.

“More than the face though,” he said, pulling back to give Sherlock a stern look. “You’ve got to do better at protecting what’s on the other side of this face.” He tapped the center of his forehead meaningfully. “You’re brain is the most precious thing this world has ever seen.” He pressed delicate kisses into the genius’ hairline, fingers sliding back through his hair to cup the back of his skull. “You’ve got to take care of your body. Your brain needs you to.”

“That’s why I have you,” Sherlock said with a bright grin.

“Fat lot of good I’ve done,” John huffed, gesturing to his greater surroundings.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You’ve found the only bed in this whole building suitable for fucking me in.”

Watching that posh mouth form around the word “fucking,” Molly’s internal muscles clenched and her cheeks blushed in more than embarrassment.

“I’m not fucking you here,” John said again, flicking his friend smartly on the forehead before laying back. “You passed out not two hours ago due to exhaustion, sleep deprivation and I’m sure dehydration as well.”

Sherlock sighed, following John down to rest his chin on his chest.

“Fine, fuck me later,” he said casually, and Molly might’ve whimpered. Her fingers twitched and her thighs itched. “But I still want to come now. You know how well I sleep after an orgasm. Really, its in my best interest.”

Sherlock’s curls shook as John laughed, vibrations traveling through from sternum to chin. John looked down at him warmly, one arm coming up to tuck behind his head. Sherlock leaned forward, pushing up on an elbow to bite the tensed _Latissimus dorsi,_ chuckling when John jerked away, ticklish.

Sherlock slid a knee over John’s hips, smoothly straddling him while at the same time displacing the sheet that had thus far so tenaciously clung to their figures.

Molly felt herself grow damp as she took in Sherlock’s tight, short black pants, barely covering the curve of his arse, and small enough that the head of his hard cock was peeking out over the waistband. Molly’s eyes went wide, a small whine caught in her throat as John’s hand came up to cup the genius’ barely contained erection.

“Well when you put it that way,” John growled, his voice gone dark and rough with desire, causing a jolt of the same to shoot down their voyeur’s spine. His hand pressed along the length of his partner’s erection before sliding over to his grab his hip, pulling him down and grinding their hips together.

Their twin groans matched Molly’s as she squeezed her thighs together, eyes shut tightly as she felt warm wetness between her legs. The three were breathless for a moment more; the pair moving together purposefully while the other tried not to move at all, willing away the arousal she had no right to be feeling.

Molly opened her eyes again just in time to see John slide both hands down the back of those impossibly tight pants, purely white flesh exposed to her eyes.

“Off,” Sherlock said impatiently, wriggling his hips against John’s, hands attacking his dark green boxers, working to shove them down their legs.

Both pairs of pants had just been flung to the ground, and Molly’s nipples were drawn up tight underneath her thin, pink jumper, when the door swung open.

“There you are, Mols! Why’re you standing in the dar—” Dimmock’s greeting cut off and his eyes went wide as he took in the scene in front of him. Molly squeaked in surprise, dropping the bee papers everywhere and crossing her arms over herself, feeling incredibly exposed.

“Ryan! I didn’t know you were here,” she said, wishing she could rush at him, push him out the door and pretend this never happened. But her legs felt wobbly and she felt frozen to the spot. Her boyfriend’s eyes were fixed on the scene playing out on the other side of the window.

“Molly,” he started slowly, looking between the beet-red mortician and the two men kissing languorously and _naked_. “Were you _watching_?”

“No!” Molly hurried to deny, trying to cover the hard nubs of her nipples. “No, of course not, I just had papers for Sherlock, so I came to find him and I saw and then I was leaving right away, because this isn’t something I should watch and I was just leaving and then you came in and I–”

Dimmock saved her, shushing her rapid negations, and smiling wickedly.

“Its okay, Molly, its okay,” he said. He kicked the door closed behind him. Molly’s eyes followed the movement, confused. “It’s okay if you were watching.”

Molly frowned. Wasn’t her boyfriend supposed to be mad? She’d just been watching two other men have sex, two men they both knew very well. Looking back at Ryan though, she found his eyes not on her, but on them.

Sherlock was sitting proudly stride his lover, a tower of pale skin and lean muscle, one hand in his hair, the other pinching a nipple, smiling teasingly down at his mate, knowing exactly how gorgeous a picture he was painting. John was captivated, groaning aloud and rolling his hips up, sliding his cock between the detective’s plush cheeks.

Ryan groaned too, quietly, dragging his gaze from them to nail Molly with a hungry and devilish look.

“It’s okay if you like watching them,” he said, advancing towards her slowly. “I do. I’d like to watch. Is that okay?”

“Um,” Molly’s brain wasn’t moving fast enough to comprehend what was happening. So she said what she desperately wanted to believe. “Yes, that’s okay,” she confessed on a whimper as Dimmock’s arms slid around his waist.

“Good,” he whispered, before taking her lips in a searing kiss. Molly melted against him, gasping as he bit her lips, drunk on the sounds coming from the other room.

Dimmock broke away from her kiss, spinning her in his arms so they were both looking at the couple on the other side of the window. His lips landed on her neck, but she could tell he was still watching as well.

“Gorgeous,” he murmured as Sherlock undulated his hips, his whole body moving in a wave, sweat making him glisten.

Molly moaned when John took a fistful of curls and yanked his partner down into a punishing kiss.

“Can I touch you?” Ryan asked, his voice dark and whispered against the shell of her ear. She could only nod her head, eyes glued to John as he wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s back, spinning them effortlessly, as coordinated and well practices as a dance, belying the amount of times it’s been done.

Dimmock hurriedly untucked her shirt from her trousers, one hand sliding up under shirt and jumper, the other slipping under the waistband of polyester trousers. Molly gasped as he wormed his way under her pink bra and underwear, pinching a nipple and sliding through her folds.

He pushed one finger inside her and they were both surprised by how wet she was. She moaned and Sherlock moaned with her, rolling rhythm stuttering as a callused palm cupped him against a matching heat and hardness. Ryan bit as her ear as Sherlock’s heels bit into the flesh where thigh met arse and everyone groaned when John thrust down against his lover, Ryan’s fingers plunging deeply as he rubbed circles over her clit with the rough heel of his hand.

Molly’s legs shook and her hands clenched were they were fisted around the sleeves of his jacket. He pressed himself hard against the small of her back, but watching the strong arch of the detective’s neck, she found she could do little more than lean her weight back against him.

She started panting when Sherlock started begging. She started gasping when John started cursing. She started coming when Ryan whispered her name in her ear and flicked her clit with the nail of his thumb. Her teeth dug into her worried red lip and her eyes squeezed so tightly shut she heard but did not see Sherlock as he shouted his partner’s name, a cry muffled by a mouthful of skin and scars.

Molly opened her eyes to see the same boneless sense of pleasant fulfillment flooding the bloodstream of the genius on the other side of the glass, his partner finishing over him, pressing breathless kisses into his sweaty hairline as he shuddered.

“Christ,” John muttered, dropping down to rest some of his weight on his partner’s come-covered chest.

The other three quite agreed, all answering in quiet sighs.

As the two men began rousing for clean up, behind the glass, Ryan lipped at Molly’s neck as  her head lolled on his shoulder.

“Was this okay?” he asked, seemingly hesitant now that the moment was in its resolution.

“This was very okay,” Molly said on a happy exhale. She rested her weight fully back against her partner, knowing he wouldn’t let her down. She shifted, reminding herself of the hardness digging into her back. “Are you okay?” she asked, willing to offer him a hand, but unable to summon up the energy to actually extend one quite yet.

“I can wait for tonight,” he said, calmly extracting his hands from her clothes, and, after sucking his fingers clean, wrapping his arms around her waist. “We’re still on for dinner, right?”

As Molly came back to herself, wading through the best of the post-orgasmic fog, she couldn’t believe what a normal conversation they were having, given what they’d just witnessed, what they’d just _done_.

She couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled up her throat, tipping her head back against his solid shoulder, asking for a kiss that was quickly delivered.

“I can’t believer we just did that,” she whispered, the flush of sex being replaced in her cheeks by a blush of embarrassment.

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” Dimmock replied flippantly, thumb idly stoking the curve of her hip even as he watched the two men on the other side settle back in for sleep.

Sherlock immediately wrapped around the soldier like an amorous octopus, reeling John in and positioning him to his liking. With John on his stomach, arm tossed over and shoulder resting on Sherlock’s chest, the genius burrowed under his doctor, pressing his face to the curve of his neck, and twisting his hips so that one leg might slot between his partners’.

“Bad for your back,” John muttered into the pillow, eyes already closed, mouth loose and skin glowing. Sherlock merely huffed, pushing more of his body underneath John’s, prompting a laugh and a grunt from the older man

“Shut up, you’re warm,” Sherlock replied without heat, one hand gliding through the drying sweat on the solid curve of John’s waist.

Their two voyeurs looked on, smiling contentedly at the scene before them and at the pleasantness between them.

“Yes, we’re still on for dinner tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cute cuddles at the beginning of this little drabble were inspired by this adorable fanart: 
> 
> doublenegativemeansyes.tumblr.com/post/13091445691/at-least-john-is-not-having-a-nightmare-about
> 
> I am technologically impaired, so I don't know how to make that a link, so sorry. Copy and paste is your friend :}


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